
Glass 
Book 



Tn^ U3 lq 



AMBARVALIA. 



AMBARVALIA. 



POEMS 



BY THOMAS BURBIDGE 



ARTHUR H.'CLOUGH 



LONDON : 
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186, STRAND ; 

FRANCIS MACPHERSON, OXFORD. 
MBCCCXL1X. 



.67 A 1 



LONDON: 
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WUITEFRIARS. 



3 iTIli 



POEMS 



ARTHUR H. CLOUGH. 



The human spirits saw I on a day, 
Sitting and looking each a different way ; 
And hardly tasking, subtly questioning, 
Another spirit went around the ring 
To each and each : and as he ceased his say, 
Each after each, I heard them singly sing, 
Some querulously high, some softly, sadly low, 
We know not, — what avails to know ? 
We know not, — wherefore need we know ? 
This answer gave they still unto his suing, 
We know not, let us do as we are doing. 

Dost thou not know that these things only seem ? — 

I know not, let me dream my dream. 

Are dust and ashes fit to make a treasure ? — 

I know not, let me take my pleasure. 

What shall avail the knowledge thou hast sought ? — 

I know not, let me think my thought. 

B 






What is the end of strife ? — 

I know not, let me live my life. 

How many days or e'er thou mean'st to move ? — 

I know not, let me love my love. 

Were not things old once new ? — 

I know not, let me do as others do. 

And when the rest were over past, 

I know not, I will do my duty, said the last. 

Thy duty do ? rejoined the voice, 
Ah do it, do it, and rejoice ; 
But shalt thou then, when all is done, 
Enjoy a love, embrace a beauty 
Like these, that may be seen and won 
In life, whose course will then be run ; 
Or wilt thou be where there is none ? 
I know not, I will do my duty. 

And taking up the word around, above, below, 

Some querulously high, some softly, sadly low, 

We know not, sang they all, nor ever need we know ! 

We know not, sang they, what avails to know ? 

Whereat the questioning spirit, some short space, 

Though unabashed, stood quiet in his place. 

But as the echoing chorus died away 

And to their dreams the rest returned apace, 



By the one spirit I saw him kneeling low, 

And in a silvery whisper heard him say : 

Truly, thou knowst not, and thou needst not know ; 

Hope only, hope thou, and believe alway ; 

I also know not, and I need not know, 

Only with questionings pass I to and fro, 

Perplexing these that sleep, and in their folly 

Imbreeding doubt and sceptic melancholy ; 

Till that their dreams deserting, they with me, 

Come all to this true ignorance and thee. 



Ah, what is love, our love, she said, 

Ah, what is human love ? 
A fire, of earthly fuel fed, 

Full fain to soar above. 
With lambent flame the void it lips, 

And of the impassive air 
Would frame for its ambitious steps 

A heaven-attaining stair. 
It wrestles and it climbs — Ah me, 

Go look in little space, 
White ash on blackened earth will be 

Sole record of its place. 



II. 
Ah love, high love, she said and sighed, 

She said, the Poet's love ! 
A star upon a turbid tide, 

Reflected from above. 
A marvel here, a glory there, 

But clouds will intervene, 
And garish earthly noon outglare 

The purity serene. 



I give thee joy ! worthy word ! 
Congratulate — A courtier fine, 
Transacts, politely shuffling by, 
The civil ceremonial lie, 
Which, quickly spoken, barely heard, 
Can never hope, nor e'en design 

To give thee joy ! 

I give thee joy ! faithful word ! 
When heart with heart, and mind with mind 
Shake-hands ; and eyes in outward sign 
Of inward vision, rest in thine ; 
And feelings simply, truly stirred, 
Emphatic utterance seek to find, 

And give thee joy ! 



I give thee joy ! word of power ! 
Believe, though slight the tie in sooth, 
When heart to heart its fountain opes 
The plant to water that with hopes 
Is budding for fruition's flower — 
The word, potential made, in truth 

Shall give thee joy ! 

Shall give thee joy ! Oh, not in vain, 
For erring child the mother's prayer ; 
The sigh, wherein a martyr's breath 
Exhales from ignominious death 
For some lost cause ! In humbler strain 
Shall this poor word a virtue bear, 

And give thee joy ! 



When panting sighs the bosom fill, 
And hands by chance united thrill 
At once with one delicious pain 
The pulses and the nerves of twain ; 
When eyes that erst could meet with ease, 
Do seek, yet, seeking, shyly shun 
Extatic conscious unison, — 
The sure beginnings, say, be these, 



Prelusive to the strain of love 
Which angels sing in heaven above ? 

Or is it but the vulgar tune, 

Which all that breathe beneath the moon 

So accurately learn — so soon ? 

With variations duly blent ; 

Yet that same song to all intent, 

Set for the finer instrument ; 

It is ; and it would sound the same 

In beasts, were not the bestial frame, 

Less subtly organised, to blame ; 

And but that soul and spirit add 

To pleasures, even base and bad, 

A zest the soulless never had. 

It may be — well indeed I deem ; 
But what if sympathy, it seem, 
And admiration and esteem, 
Commingling therewithal, do make 
The passion prized for Reason's sake ? 
Yet, when my heart would fain rejoice, 
A small expostulating voice 
Falls in : Of this thou wilt not take 
Thy one irrevocable choice ? 
In accent tremulous and thin 



I hear high Prudence deep within, 

Pleading the bitter, bitter sting, 

Should slow- maturing seasons bring, 

Too late, the veritable thing. 

For if (the Poet's tale of bliss) 

A love, wherewith commeasured this 

Is weak, and beggarly, and none, 

Exist a treasure to be won, 

And if the vision, though it stay, 

Be yet for an appointed day, — 

This choice, if made, this deed, if done, 

The memory of this present past, 

With vague foreboding might o'ercast 

The heart, or madden it at last. 

Let Reason first her office ply ; 
Esteem, and admiration high, 
And mental, moral sympathy, 
Exist they first, nor be they brought 
By self-deceiving afterthought, — 
What if an halo interfuse 
With these again its opal hues, 
That all o'erspreading and o'erlying, 
Transmuting, mingling, glorifying, 
About the beauteous various whole, 
With beaming smile do dance and quiver ; 



8 

Yet, is that halo of the soul ? — 

Or is it, as may sure be said, 

Phosphoric exhalation bred 

Of vapour, steaming from the bed 

Of Fancy's brook, or Passion's river ? 

So when, as will be by-and-bye, 

The stream is waterless and dry, 

This halo and its hues will die ; 

And though the soul contented rest 

With those substantial blessings blest, 

Will not a longing, half-confest, 

Betray that this is not the love, 

The gift for which all gifts above 

Him praise we, Who is Love, the giver ? 

I cannot say — the things are good : 
Bread is it, if not angels' food ; 
But Love ? Alas ! I cannot say ; 
A glory on the vision lay ; 
A light of more than mortal day 
About it played, upon it rested ; 
It did not, faltering and weak, 
Beg Reason on its side to speak : 
Itself was Reason, or, if not, 
Such substitute as is, I wot, 
Of seraph-kind the loftier lot ; — 



Itself was of itself attested ; — 
To processes that, hard and dry, 
Elaborate truth from fallacy, 
With modes intuitive succeeding, 
Including those and superseding ; 
Reason sublimed and Love most high 
It was, a life that cannot die, 
A dream of glory most exceeding. 



As, at a railway junction, men 
Who came together, taking then 
One the train up, one down, again 

Meet never ! Ah, much more as they 
Who take one street's two sides, and say 
Hard parting words, but walk one way : 

Though moving other mates between, 
While carts and coaches intervene. 
Each to the other goes unseen, 

Yet seldom, surely, shall there lack 
Knowledge they walk not back to back, 
But with an unity of track, 



10 

Where common dangers each attend, 
And common hopes their guidance lend 
To light them to the self-same end. 

Whether he then shall cross to thee, 

Or thou go thither, or it be 

Some midway point, ye yet shall see 

Each other, yet again shall meet. 

Ah, joy ! when with the closing street, 

Forgivingly at last ye greet ! 



COMMEMORATION SONNETS. 

OXFORD, 1844. 



I. 
Amidst the fleeting many unforgot, 
Leonina ! whether thou wert seen 
Singling, upon the Isis' margent green, 
From meaner flowers the frail forget-me-not, 
Or, as the picture of a saintly queen, 
Sitting, uplifting, betwixt fingers small, 
A sceptre of the water-iris tall, 
With pendent lily crowned of golden sheen ; 



11 

So, or in gay and gorgeous gallery, 

Where, amid splendours, like to those that far 

Flame backward from the sun's invisible car, 

Thou lookedst forth, as there the evening star ; 

Oh, Leonina ! fair wert thou to see, 

And unforgotten shall thine image be. 



ii. 

Thou whom thy danglers have ere this forgot, 

Leonina ! whether thou wert seen 

Waiting, upon the Isis' margent green, 

The boats that should have passed there and did not ; 

Or at the ball, admiring crowds between, 

To partner academical and slow 

Teaching, upon the light Slavonic toe, 

Polkas that were not, only should have been ; 

Or, in the crowded gallery crushed, didst hear 

For bonnets white, blue, pink, the ladies' cheer 

Multiplied while divided, and endure 

(Thyself being seen) to see, not hear, rehearse 

The lon^, long Proses, and the Latin Verse — 

Leonina ! thou wert tired, I 'm sure. 



12 



in. 
Not in thy robes of royal rich array, 
As when thy state at Dresden thou art keeping ; 
Nor with the golden epaulettes outpeeping 
From under pink and scarlet trappings gay 
(Raiment of doctors) through the area led ; 
While galleries peal applause, and Phillimore 
For the supreme superlative cons-o'er 
The common-place-book of his classic head ; 
Uncrowned thou com 'st, alone, or with a tribe 
Of volant varlets scattering jest and jibe 
Almost beside thee. Yet to thee, when rent 
Was the Teutonic Caesar's robe, there went 
One portion : and with Julius, thou to-day 
Canst boast, I came, I saw, I went away ! 



Come back again, my olden heart !— 

Ah, fickle spirit and untrue, 
I bade the only guide depart 

Whose faithfulness I surely knew : 
I said, my heart is all too soft ; 
He who would climb and soar aloft, 
Must needs keep ever at his side 
The tonic of a wholesome pride. 



13 

Come back again, my olden heart ! — 

Alas, I called not then for thee ; 
I called for Courage, and apart 

From Pride if Courage could not be, 
Then welcome, Pride ! and I shall find 
In thee a power to lift the mind 
This low and grovelling joy above — 
'Tis but the proud can truly love. 

Come back again, my olden heart ! — 

With incrustations of the years 
Uncased as yet, — as then thou wert, 

Full-filled with shame and coward fears : 
Wherewith, amidst a jostling throng 
Of deeds, that each and all were wrong, 
The doubting soul, from day to day, 
Uneasy paralytic lay. 

Come back again, my olden heart ! 

I said, Perceptions contradict, 
Convictions come, anon depart, 

And but themselves as false convict. 
Assumptions hasty, crude, and vain, 
Full oft to use will Science deign ; 
The corks the novice plies to-day 
The swimmer soon shall cast away. 



14 

Come back again, iny olden heart ! 

I said, Behold, I perish quite, 
Unless to give me strength to start, 

I make myself my rule of right : 
It must be, if I act at all, 
To save my shame I have at call 
The plea of all men understood, 
Because I willed it, it is good. 

Come back again, my olden heart ! 

I know not if in very deed 
This means alone could aid impart 

To serve my sickly spirit's need ; 
But clear alike of wild self-will, 
And fear that faltered, paltered still, 
Remorseful thoughts of after days 
A way espy betwixt the ways. 

Come back again, old heart ! Ah me ! 

Methinks in those thy coward fears 
There might, perchance, a courage be, 

That fails in these the manlier years ; 
Courage to let the courage sink, 
Itself a coward base to think, 
Rather than not for heavenly light 
Wait on to show the truly right. 



15 



When soft September brings again 
To yonder gorse its golden glow, 

And Snowdon sends its autumn rain 
To bid thy current livelier flow ; 

Amid that ashen foliage light 

When scarlet beads are glistering bright, 

While alder boughs unchanged are seen 

In summer livery of green ; 

When clouds before the cooler breeze 

Are flying, white and large ; with these 

Returning, so may I return, 

And find thee changeless, Pont-y-wern. 



Oh, ask not what is love, she said, 

Or ask it not of me ; 
Or of the heart, or of the head, 

Or if at all it be. 

Oh, ask it not, she said, she said, 
Thou winn'st not word from me ! 

— Oh, silent as the long long dead, 
I, Lady, learn of thee. 



16 

I ask, — thou speakest not, — and still 

I ask, and look to thee ; 
And lo, without or with a will, 

The answer is in me. 

Without thy will it came to me ? 

Ah, with it let it stay ; 
Ah, with it, yes, abide in me, 

Nor only for to-day ! 

Thou claim 'st it ? nay, the deed is done ; 

Ah, leave it with thy leave ; 
And thou a thousand loves for one 

Shalt day on day receive ! 



Light words they were, and lightly, falsely said ; 

She heard them, and she started, — and she rose, 

As in the act to speak ; the sudden thought 

And unconsidered impulse led her on. 

In act to speak she rose, but with the sense 

Of all the eyes of that mixed company 

Now suddenly turned upon her, some with age 



17 

Hardened and dulled, some cold and critical ; 

Some in whom vapours of their own conceit, 

As moist malarious mists the heavenly stars, 

Still blotted out their good, the best at best 

By frivolous laugh and prate conventional 

All too untuned for all she thought to say — 

With such a thought the mantling blood to her cheek 

Flushed-up, and o'er-flushed itself, blank night her soul 

Made dark, and in her all her purpose swooned. 

She stood as if for sinking. Yet anon 

With recollections clear, august, sublime, 

Of God's great truth, and right immutable, 

Which, as obedient vassals, to her mind 

Came summoned of her will, in self-negation 

Quelling her troublous earthy consciousness, 

She queened it o'er her weakness. At the spell 

Back rolled the ruddy tide, and leaves her cheek 

Paler than erst, and yet not ebbs so far 

But that one pulse of one indignant thought 

Might hurry it hither in flood. So as she stood 

She spoke. God in her spoke, and made her heard. 



18 



Qui laborat, orat. 

only Source of all our light and life, 
Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel, 

But whom the hours of mortal moral strife 
Alone aright reveal ! 

Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought, 
Thy presence owns ineffable, divine ; 

Chastised each rebel self-encentered thought, 
My will adoreth Thine. 

With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind 
Speechless abide, or speechless e'en depart ; 

Nor seek to see — for what of earthly kind, 
Can see Thee as Thou art ? — 

If sure-assured 'tis but profanely bold 

In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see, 

It dare not dare the dread communion hold 
In ways unworthy Thee, 

not unowned, Thou shalt unnamed forgive, 
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ; 

And if in work its life it seem to live, 
Shalt make that work be prayer. 



19 



Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies, 
Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part, 

And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes 
In recognition start. 

As wills Thy will, or give or e'en forbear 

The beatific supersensual sight, 
So, with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer 

Approach Thee morn and night. 



With graceful seat and skilful hand, 

Upon the fiery steed, 
Prompt at a moment to command, 

As fittest, or concede, 

Lady ! happy he whose will 

Shall manliest homage pay 
To that which yielding ever, still 

Shall in its yielding sway : 

Yea, happy he, whose willing soul 

In perfect love combined 
With thine shall form one perfect whole, 

One happy heart and mind ! 
c2 



20 

Fair, fair on fleeting steed to see, 
Boon Nature's child, nor less, 

In gorgeous rooms, serene and free, 
'Midst etiquette and dress ! 

Thrice happy who, amidst the form 

And folly that must be, 
Existence fresh, and true, and warm, 

Shall, Lady, own in thee ! 

Such dreams, in gay saloon, of days 
That shall be, 'midst the dance 

And music, while I hear and gaze, 
My silent soul entrance. 

As here the harp thy fingers wake 

To sounds melodious, he 
To thy soul's touch shall music make, 

And his enstrengthen thee. 

The notes, diverse in time and tone, 
The hearts shall image true, 

That still, in some sweet ways unknown, 
Their harmonies renew. 



21 

The mazy dance, an emblem meet, 
Shall changeful life pourtray, 

Whose changes all love's music sweet 
Expressively obey. 

Then shall to waltz, though unexiled, 
And polka sometimes heard, 

To songs capricious, wayward, wild, 
Be other strains preferred. 

The heart that 'midst the petty strife, 
Whose ferment, day by day, 

To strange realities of life 
Converts its trifling play, — 

The heart, that here pursued the right, 

Shall then, in freer air, 
Expand its wings, and drink the light 

Of life and reason there : 

And quickening truth and living law, 

And large affections clear 
Shall it to heights on heights updraw, 

To holiest hope and fear. 



22 

— Ah, moralizing premature ! 

And yet words half-supprest 
May find some secret thoughts ensure 

Acceptance half-confest. 

Full oft concealed high meanings work ; 

And, scorning observation, 
In gay unthinking guise will lurk 

A saintly aspiration ; 

No sickly thing to sit and sun 

Its puny worth, to pause 
And list, ere half the deed be done, 

Its echo — self- applause : 

No idler, who its kindly cares 

To every gossip mentions, 
And at its breast a posy wears 

Of laudable intentions. 

As of itself, of others so 

Unrecognised to seek 
Its aim content, and in the flow 

Of life and spirits meek. 



■23 



When Israel came out of Egypt. 



Lo, here is God, and there is God ! 

Believe it not, man ; 
In such vain sort to this and that 

The ancient heathen ran : 
Though old Religion shake her head, 

And say in bitter grief, 
The day behold, at first foretold, 

Of atheist unbelief : 
Take better part, with manly heart, 

Thine adult spirit can ; 
Receive it not, believe it not, 

Believe it not, Man ! 

As men at dead of night awaked 

With cries, " The king is here," 
Rush forth and greet whome'er they meet, 

Whoe'er shall first appear ; 
And still repeat, to all the street, 

" 'Tis he, — the king is here ;" 
The long procession moveth on, 

Each nobler form they see 
With changeful suit they still salute, 

And cry, " 'Tis he, 'tis he ! " 



24- 

So, even so, when men were young, 

And earth and heaven was new, 
And His immediate presence He 

From human hearts withdrew, 
The soul perplexed and daily vexed 

With sensuous False and True, 
Amazed, bereaved, no less believed, 

And fain would see Him too : 
He is ! the prophet-tongues proclaimed ; 

In joy and hasty fear. 
He is ! aloud replied the crowd, 

Is, here, and here, and here. 

He is ! They are ! in distance seen 

On yon Olympus high, 
In those Avernian woods abide, 

And walk this azure sky : 
They are, They are ! to every show 

Its eyes the baby turned, 
And blazes sacrificial tall 

On thousand altars burned : 
They are, They are ! — On Sinai's top 

Far seen the lightnings shone, 
The thunder broke, a trumpet spoke, 

And God said, I am One. 



25 

God spake it out, I, God, am One ; 

The unheeding ages ran, 
And baby-thoughts again, again, 

Have dogged the growing man : 
And as of old from Sinai's top 

God said that God is One, 
By Science strict so speaks He now- 

To tell us, There is None ! 
Earth goes by chemic forces; Heaven 's 

A Mecanique Celeste ! 
And heart and mind of human kind 

A watch-work as the rest ! 

Is this a Voice, as was the Voice 

Whose speaking spoke abroad, 
When thunder pealed, and mountain reeled, 

The ancient Truth of God ? 
Ah, not the Voice ; 'tis but the cloud, 

The cloud of darkness dense, 
Where image none, nor e'er was seen 

Similitude of sense. 
'Tis but the cloudy darkness dense 

That wrapt the Mount around ; 
With dull amaze the people stays, 

And doubts the Coming Sound. 



26 

Some chosen prophet-soul the while 

Shall dare, sublimely meek, 
Within the shroud of blackest cloud 

The Deity to seek : 
'Midst atheistic systems dark, 

And darker hearts' despair, 
That soul has heard his very word, 

And on the dusky air 
His skirts, as passed He by, to see 

Has strained on their behalf, 
Who on the plain, with dance amain, 

Adore the Golden Calf. 

'Tis but the cloudy darkness dense ; 

Though blank the tale it tells, 
No God, no Truth ! yet He, in sooth, 

Is there — within it dwells ; 
Within the sceptic darkness deep 

He dwells that none may see, 
Till idol forms and idol thoughts 

Have passed and ceased to be : 
No God, no Truth ! ah though, in sooth, 

So stand the doctrine's half ; 
On Egypt's track return not back, 

Nor own the Golden Calf. 



27 

Take better part, with manlier heart, 

Thine adult spirit can ; 
No God, no Truth, receive it ne'er — 

Believe it ne'er — Man ! 
But turn not then to seek again 

What first the ill began ; 
No God, it saith ; ah, wait in faith 

God's self-completing plan ; 
Receive it not, but leave it not, 

And wait it out, Man ! 

The Man that went the cloud within 

Is gone and vanished quite ; 
He cometh not, the people cries, 

Nor bringeth God to sight : 
Lo these thy gods, that safety give, 

Adore and keep the feast ! 
Deluding and deluded cries 

The Prophet's brother-Priest : 
And Israel all bows down to fall 

Before the gilded beast. 

Devout, indeed ! that priestly creed, 

Man, reject as sin ; 
The clouded hill attend thou still, 

And him that went within. 



28 

He yet shall bring some worthy thing 

For waiting souls to see ; 
Some sacred word that he hath heard 

Their light and life shall he ; 
Some lofty part, than which the heart 

Adopt no nobler can, 
Thou shalt receive, thou shalt believe, 

And thou shalt do, Man ! 



The Silver Wedding ! on some pensive ear 
From towers remote as sound the silvery bells, 

To-day from one far unforgotten year 
A silvery faint memorial music swells. 

And silver-pale the dim memorial light 
Of musing age on youthful joys is shed, 

The golden joys of fancy's dawning bright, 
The golden bliss of, Woo'd, and won, and wed 

Ah, golden then, but silver now ! In sooth, 

The years that pale the cheek, that dim the eyes, 

And silver o'er the golden hairs of youth, 

Less prized can make its only priceless prize. 

Not so ; the voice this silver name that gave 
To this, the ripe and unenfeebled date, 



29 



For steps together tottering to the grave, 
Hath bid the perfect golden title wait. 

Rather, if silver this, if that be gold, 

From good to better changed an age's track, 

Must it as baser metal be enrolled, 

That day of days, a quarter- century back. 

Yet ah, its hopes, its joys were golden too, 
But golden of the fairy gold of dreams : 

To feel is but to dream ; until we do, 

There 's nought that is, and all we see but seems. 

What was or seemed it needed cares and tears, 
And deeds together done, and trials past, 

And all the subtlest alchemy of years 

To change to genuine substance here at last. 

Your fairy gold is silver sure to day ; 

Your ore by crosses many, many a loss, 
As in refiners' fires, hath purged away 

What erst it had of earthy human dross. 

Come years as many yet, and as they go 
In human life's great crucible shall they 

Transmute, so potent are the spells they know, 
Into pure gold the silver of to-day. 



30 

Strange metallurge is human life ! "lis true ; 

And Use and Wont in many a gorgeous case 
Full specious fair for casual outward view 

Electrotype the sordid and the base. 

Nor lack who praise, avowed, the spurious ware, 
Who bid young hearts the one true love forego, 

Conceit to feed, or fancy light as air, 

Or greed of pelf and precedence and show. 

True, false, as one to casual eyes appear, 
To read men truly men may hardly learn ; 

Yet doubt it not that wariest glance would here 
Faith, Hope and Love, the true Tower-stamp discern 

Come years again ! as many yet ! and purge 
Less precious earthier elements away, 

And gently changed at life's extremest verge, 
Bring bright in gold your perfect fiftieth day ! 

That sight may children see and parents show ! 

If not — yet earthly chains of metal true, 
By love and duty wrought and fixed below, 

Elsewhere will shine, transformed, celestial-new ; 



31 



Will shine of gold, whose essence, heavenly bright, 
No doubt-damps tarnish, worldly passions fray ; 

Gold into gold there mirrored, light in light, 
Shall gleam in glories of a deathless day. 



i. 
Why should I say I see the things I see not, 

Why be and be not ? 
Show love for that I love not, and fear for what I fear not ? 
And dance about to music that I hear not ? 
Who standeth still 1 the street 
Shall be hustled and justled about ; 
And he that stops i' the dance shall be spurned by the 

dancers' feet, — 
Shall be shoved and be twisted by all he shall meet, 
And shall raise up an outcry and rout ; 
And the partner, too, — 
What 's the partner to do ? 
While all the while 'tis but, perchance, an humming in 
mine ear, 
That yet anon shall hear, 
And I anon, the music in my soul, 
In a moment read the whole ; 
The music in my heart, 
Joyously take my part, 



32 

And hand in hand, and heart with heart, with these 
retreat, advance ; 
And borne on wings of wavy sound, 
Whirl with these around, around, 
Who here are living in the living dance ! 
Why forfeit that fair chance ? 
Till that arrive, till thou awake, 
Of these, my soul, thy music make, 
And keep amid the throng, 
And turn as they shall turn, and bound as they are 

bounding, — 
Alas ! alas ! alas ! and what if all along 
The music is not sounding ? 



Are there not, then, two musics unto men ? — 
One loud and bold and coarse, 
And overpowering still perforce 
All tone and tune beside ; 
Yet in despite its pride 
Only of fumes of foolish fancy bred, 
And sounding solely in the sounding head : 
The other, soft and low, 
Stealing whence we not know, 
Painfully heard, and easily forgot, 
With pauses oft and many a silence strange, 



33 

(And silent oft it seems, when silent it is not) 
Revivals too of unexpected change : 
Haply thou think' st 'twill never he begun, 
Or that 't has come, and been, and past away ; 

Yet turn to other none, — 

Turn not, oh, turn not thou ! 
But listen, listen, listen, — if haply he heard it may ; 
Listen, listen, listen, — is it not sounding now ? 



Yea, and as thought of some beloved friend 
By death or distance parted will descend, 
Severing, in crowded rooms ablaze with light, 
As by a magic screen, the seer from the sight, 
(Palsying the nerves that intervene 
The eye and central sense between ;) 

So may the ear, 

Hearing, not hear, 
Though drums do roll, and pipes and cymbals ring ; 
So the bare conscience of the better thing 
Unfelt, unseen, unimaged, all unknown, 
May fix the entranced soul mid multitudes alone. 



34' 



Sweet streamlet bason ! at thy side 
Weary and faint within me cried 
My longing heart, — In such pure deep 
How sweet it were to sit and sleep ; 
To feel each passage from without 
Close up, — above me and about, 
Those circling waters crystal clear, 
That calm impervious atmosphere ! 
There on thy pearly pavement pure 
To lean, and feel myself secure, 
Or through the dim-lit inter-space, 
Afar at whiles upgazing trace 
The dimpling bubbles dance around 
Upon thy smooth exterior face ; 
Or idly list the dreamy sound 
Of ripples lightly flung, above 
That home, of peace, if not of love. 



35 



Away, haunt not thou me, 

Thou vain Philosophy ! 

Little hast thou bestead, 

Save to perplex the head, 

And leave the spirit dead. 

Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go, 

While from the secret treasure-depths below, 

Fed by the skiey shower, 

And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high, 

Wisdom at once, and Power, 

Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly ? 

Why labour at the dull mechanic oar, 

When the fresh breeze is blowing. 

And the strong current flowing, 

Right onward to the Eternal Shore ? 



My wind is turned to bitter north, 
That was so soft a south before ; 

My sky, that shone so sunny bright, 
With foggy gloom is clouded o'er : 
d2 



36 

My gay green leaves are yellow-black, 
Upon the dank autumnal floor ; 

For love, departed once, comes back 
No more again, no more. 

A roofless ruin lies my home, 

For winds to blow and rains to pour ; 
One frosty night befell, and lo, 

I find my summer days are o'er : 
The heart bereaved, of why and how 

Unknowing, knows that yet before 
It had what e'en to Memory now 

Returns no more, no more. 



Look you, my simple friend, 'tis one of those, 

(Alack, a common weed of our ill time), 

Who, do whate'er they may, go where they will, 

Must needs still carry about the looking-glass 

Of vain philosophy. And if so be 

That some small natural gesture shall escape them, 

(Nature will out) straightway about they turn, 

And con it duly there, and note it down, 

With inward glee and much complacent chuckling, 

Part in conceit of their superior science, 



37 

Part in forevision of the attentive look 

And laughing glance that may one time reward them, 

When the fresh ore, this day dug up, at last 

Shall, thrice refined and purified, from the mint 

Of conversation intellectual 

Into the golden currency of wit 

Issue — satirical or pointed sentence, 

Impromptu, epigram, or it may be sonnet, 

Heir undisputed to the pinkiest page 

In the album of a literary lady. 

And can it be, you ask me, that a man, 
With the strong arm, the cunning faculties, 
And keenest forethought gifted, and, within, 
Longings unspeakable, the lingering echoes 
Responsive to the still-still-calling voice 
Of God Most High, — should disregard all these, 
And half-employ all those for such an aim 
As the light sympathy of successful wit, 
Vain titillation of a moment's praise ? 
Why, so is good no longer good, but crime 
Our truest, best advantage, since it lifts us 
Out of the stifling gas of men's opinion 
Into the vital atmosphere of Truth, 
Where He again is visible, tho' in anger. 



38 

Thought may well be ever ranging, 
And opinion ever changing, 
Task-work be, though ill begun, 
Dealt with by experience better ; 
By the law and by the letter 
Duty done is duty done : 
Do it. Time is on the wing ! 

Hearts, 'tis quite another thing, 
Must or once for all be given, 
Or must not at all be given ; 
Hearts, 'tis quite another thing ! 

To bestow the soul away 

In an idle duty-play ! — 

Why, to trust a life-long bliss 

To caprices of a day, 

Scarce were more depraved than this ! 

Men and maidens, see you mind it ; 
Show of love, where'er you find it, 
Look if duty lurk behind it ! 
Duty-fancies, urging on 
Whither love had never gone ! 

Loving — if the answering breast 
Seem not to be thus possessed, 



39 

Still in hoping have a care ; 
If it do, beware, beware ! 
But if in yourself you find it, 
Above all things — mind it, mind it ! 



Duty — that 's to say complying 

With whate'er 's expected here ; 
On your unknown cousin's dying, 

Straight be ready with the tear ; 
Upon etiquette relying, 
Unto usage nought denying, 
Lend your waist to be embraced, 

Blush not even, never fear ; 
Claims of kith and kin connection, 

Claims of manners honour still, 
Ready money of affection 

Pay, whoever drew the bill. 
With the form conforming duly, 
Senseless what it meaneth truly, 
Go to church — the world require you, 

To balls — the world require you too, 
And marry — papa and mama desire you, 

And your sisters and schoolfellows do. 
Duty — 'tis to take on trust 
What things are good, and right, and just ; 



40 



And whether indeed they be or be not, 
Try not, test not, feel not, see not : 
'Tis walk and dance, sit down and rise 
By leading, opening ne'er your eyes ; 

Stunt sturdy limbs that Nature gave, 

And be drawn in a Bath chair along to the grave. 

'Tis the stern and prompt suppressing, 

As an obvious deadly sin, 
All the questing and the guessing 

Of the soul's own soul within : 
'Tis the coward acquiescence 

In a destiny's behest, 
To a shade by terror made, 
Sacrificing, aye, the essence 

Of all that 's truest, noblest, best : 
'Tis the blind non-recognition 

Either of goodness, truth, or beauty, 
Except by precept and submission ; 

Moral blank, and moral void, 

Life at very birth destroyed, 
Atrophy, exinanition ! 

Duty! 

Yea, by duty's prime condition 

Pure nonentity of duty ! 



41 



" Blank Misgivings of a Creature moving about 
in Worlds not realised" 



Here am I yet, another twelvemonth spent, 
One-third departed of the mortal span, 
Carrying on the child into the man, 
Nothing into reality. Sails rent, 
And rudder hroken, — reason impotent, — 
Affections all unfixed ; so forth I fare 
On the mid seas unheedingly, so dare 
To do and to be done by, well content. 
So was it from the first, so is it yet ; 
Yea, the first kiss that by these lips was set 
On any human lips, methinks was sin — 
Sin, cowardice, and falsehood ; for the will 
Into a deed e'en then advanced, wherein 
God, unidentified, was thought-of still. 

ii. 
Though to the vilest things beneath the moon 
For poor Ease' sake I give away my heart, 
And for the moment's sympathy let part 
My sight and sense of truth, Thy precious boon, 



42 



My painful earnings, lost, all lost, as soon, 

Almost, as gained : and though aside I start, 

Belie Thee daily, hourly, — still Thou art, 

Art surely as in heaven the sun at noon : 

How much so e'er I sin, whate'er I do 

Of evil, still the sky above is blue, 

The stars look down in beauty as before : 

Is it enough to walk as best we may, 

To walk, and sighing, dream of that blest day 

When ill we cannot quell shall be no more ? 



Well, well, — Heaven bless you all from day to day ! 

Forgiveness too, or e'er we part, from each, 

As I do give it, so must I beseech : 

I owe all much, much more than I can pay ; 

Therefore it is I go ; how could I stay 

Where every look commits me to fresh debt, 

And to pay little I must borrow yet ? 

Enough of this already, now away ! 

With silent woods and hills untenanted 

Let me go commune ; under thy sweet gloom, 

kind maternal Darkness, hide my head : 

The day may come I yet may re-assume 

My place, and, these tired limbs recruited, seek 

The task for which I now am all too weak. 



43 



Yes, I have lied, and so must walk my way, 

Bearing the liar's curse upon my head ; 

Letting my weak and sickly heart he fed 

On food which does the present craving stay, 

But may he clean-denied me e'en to-day, 

And tho' 'twere certain, yet were ought but bread ; 

Letting — for so they say, it seems, I said, 

And I am all too weak to disobey ! 

Therefore for me sweet Nature's scenes reveal not 

Their charm ; sweet Music greets me and I feel not ; 

Sweet eyes pass off me uninspired ; yea, more, 

The golden tide of opportunity 

Flows waf ting-in friendships and better, — I 

Unseeing, listless, pace along the shore. 



How often sit I, poring o'er 

My strange distorted youth, 
Seeking in vain, in all my store, 

One feeling based on truth ; 
Amid the maze of petty life 

A clue whereby to move, 
A spot whereon in toil and strife 

To dare to rest and love. 



44 

So constant as my heart would be, 

So fickle as it must, 
'Twere well for others as for me 

'Twere dry as summer dust. 
Excitements come, and act and speech 

Flow freely forth ; — but no, 
Nor they, nor ought beside can reach 

The buried world below. 



Like a child 






In some strange garden left awhile alone, 
I pace about the pathways of the world, 
Plucking light hopes and joys from every stem, 
With qualms of vague misgiving in my heart 
That payment at the last will be required, 
Payment I cannot make, or guilt incurred, 
And shame to be endured. 

VII. 

Roused by importunate knocks 



I rose, I turned the key, and let them in, 
First one, anon another, and at length 
In troops they came ; for how could I, who once 
Had let in one, nor looked him in the face, 
Show scruples e'er again ? So in they came, 



45 



A noisy band of revellers, — vain hopes, 
Wild fancies, fitful joys ; and there they sit 
In my heart's holy place, and through the night 
Carouse, to leave it when the cold grey dawn 
Gleams from the East, to tell me that the time 
For watching and for thought bestowed is gone. 



kind protecting Darkness ! as a child 

Flies back to bury in his mother's lap 

His shame and his confusion, so to thee, 

Mother Night, come I ! within the folds 

Of thy dark robe hide thou me close ; for I 

So long, so heedless, with external things 

Have played the liar, that whate'er I see, 

E'en these white glimmering curtains, yon bright stars, 

Which to the rest rain comfort down, for me 

Smiling those smiles, which I may not return, 

Or frowning frowns of fierce triumphant malice, 

As angry claimants or expectants sure 

Of that I promised and may not perform 

Look me in the face ! hide me, Mother Night ! 

IX. 

Once more the wonted road I tread, 
Once more dark heavens above me spread, 



46 

Upon the windy down I stand, 

My station, whence the circling land 

Lies mapped and pictured wide below ; — 

Such as it was, such e'en again, 

Long dreary bank, and breadth of plain 

By hedge or tree unbroken ; — lo, 

A few grey woods can only show 

How vain their aid, and in the sense 

Of one unaltering impotence, 

Relieving not, meseems enhance 

The sovereign dulness of the expanse. 

Yet marks where human hand hath been, 

Bare house, unsheltered village, space 

Of ploughed and fenceless tilth between 

(Such aspect as methinks may be 

In some half-settled colony), 

From Nature vindicate the scene ; 

A wide, and yet disheartening view, 

A melancholy world. 

'Tis true, 
Most true ; and yet, like those strange smiles 
By fervent hope or tender thought 
From distant happy regions brought, 
Which upon some sick bed are seen 
To glorify a pale worn face 
With sudden beauty, — so at whiles 



47 

Lights have descended, hues have heen, 
To clothe with half-celestial grace 
The bareness of the desert place. 

Since so it is, so be it still ! 
Could only thou, my heart, be taught 
To treasure, and in act fulfil 
The lesson which the sight has brought ; 
In thine own dull and dreary state 
To work and patiently to wait : 
Little thou think' st in thy despair 
How soon the o'ershaded sun may shine, 
And e'en the dulling clouds combine 
To bless with lights and hues divine 
That region desolate and bare, 
Those sad and sinful thoughts of thine ! 

Still doth the coward heart complain ; 
The hour may come, and come in vain ; 
The branch that withered lies and dead 
No suns can force to lift its head. 
True ! — yet how little thou canst tell 
How much in thee is ill or well ; 
Nor for thy neighbour, nor for thee, 
Be sure, was life designed to be 
A draught of dull complacency. 
One Power too is it, who doth give 



48 

The food without us, and within 
The strength that makes it nutritive : 
He bids the dry bones rise and live, 
And e'en in hearts depraved to sin 
Some sudden, gracious influence, 
May give the long-lost good again, 
And wake within the dormant sense 
And love of good ; — for mortal men, 
So but thou strive, thou soon shalt see 
Defeat itself is victory. 

So be it : yet, Good and Great, 
In whom in this bedarkened state 
I fain am struggling to believe, 
Let me not ever cease to grieve, 
Nor lose the consciousness of ill 
Within me ; — and refusing still 
To recognise in things around 
What cannot truly there be found, 
Let me not feel, nor be it true, 
That while each daily task I do 
I still am giving day by day 
My precious things within away, 
(Those thou didst give to keep as thine) 
And casting, do whate'er I may, 
My heavenly pearls to earthly swine. 



49 



X. 

I have seen higher holier things than these, 
And therefore must to these refuse my heart, 

Yet am I panting for a little ease ; 
I '11 take, and so depart. 

Ah hold ! the heart is prone to fall away, 
Her high and cherished visions to forget, 

And if thou takest, how wilt thou repay 
So vast, so dread a debt ? 

How will the heart, which now thou trustest, then 
Corrupt, yet in corruption mindful yet 5 

Turn with sharp stings upon itself ! Again, 
Bethink thee of the debt ! 

— Hast thou seen higher holier things than these, 
And therefore must to these thy heart refuse ? 

With the true best, alack, how ill agrees 
That best that thou wouldst choose ! 

The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above ; 

Do thou, as best thou inay'st, thy duty do : 
Amid the things allowed thee live and love ; 

Some day thou shalt it view. 



50 



Qua cur sum ventus. 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvass drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day 

Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied, 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E 'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence joined anew to feel, 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged. 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered — 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 

Through winds and tides one compass guides- 
To that, and your own selves, be true. 



51 



But blithe breeze ! and great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 

On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sought, 
One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 

bounding breeze, rushing seas ! 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 



ALCAICS. 



So spake the Voice ; and, as with a single life 
Instinct, the whole mass, fierce, irretainable, 
Down on that unsuspecting host swept 
Down, with the fury of winds that all night 
Up-brimming, sapping slowly the dyke, at dawn 
Full through the breach, o'er homestead, and harvest, and 
Herd roll a deluge ; while the milkmaid 
Trips i' the dew, and remissly guiding 
Morn's first uneven furrow, the farmer's boy 
Dreams out his dream : so over the multitude 
Safe-tented, uncontrolled and uncon- 
trollably sped the Avenger's fury. 



52 



Natura naturans. 



Beside me, — in the car, — she sat, 

She spake not, no, nor looked to me : 
From her to me, from me to her, 

What passed so subtly stealthily ? 
As rose to rose that by it blows 

Its interchanged aroma flings ; 
Or wake to sound of one sweet note 

The virtues of disparted strings. 

Beside me, nought but this ! — but this, 

That influent as within me dwelt 
Her life, mine too within her breast, 

Her brain, her every limb she felt : 
We sat ; while o'er and in us, more 

And more, a power unknown prevailed, 
Inhaling, and inhaled, — and still 

'Twas one, inhaling or inhaled. 

Beside me, nought but this ; — and passed ; 

I passed ; and know not to this day 
If gold or jet her girlish hair, 

If black, or brown, or lucid-grey 



53 



Her eye's young glance : the fickle chance 
That joined us, yet may join again ; 

But I no face again could greet 

As her's, whose life was in me then. 

As unsuspecting mere a maid 

As, fresh in maidhood's bloomiest bloom, 
In casual second-class did e'er 

By casual youth her seat assume ; 
Or vestal, say, of saintliest clay, 

For once by balmiest airs betrayed 
Unto emotions too too sweet 

To be unlingeringly gainsaid : 

Unowning then, confusing soon 

With dreamier dreams that o'er the glass 
Of shyly ripening woman-sense 

Reflected, scarce reflected, pass, 
A wife may-be, a mother she 

In Hymen's shrine recals not now, 
She first in hour, ah, not profane, 

With me to Hymen learnt to bow. 

Ah no ! — Yet owned we, fused in one, 

The Power which e'en in stones and earths 

By blind elections felt, in forms 
Organic breeds to myriad births ; 



54 



By lichen small on granite wall 
Approved, its faintest feeblest stir 

Slow-spreading, strengthening long, at last 
Vibrated full in me and her. 

In me and her — sensation strange ! 

The lily grew to pendent head, 
To vernal airs the mossy bank 

Its sheeny primrose spangles spread, 
In roof o'er roof of shade sun-proof 

Did cedar strong itself outclimb, 
And altitude of aloe proud 

Aspire in floreal crown sublime ; 

Flashed flickering forth fantastic flies, 

Big bees their burly bodies swung, 
Rooks roused with civic din the elms, 

And lark its wild reveillez rung ; 
In Libyan dell the light gazelle, 

The leopard lithe in Indian glade, 
And dolphin, brightening tropic seas, 

In us were living, leapt and played : • 

Their shells did slow Crustacea build, 
Their gilded skins did snakes renew, 

While mightier spines for loftier kind 
Their types in amplest limbs outgrew ; 



55 

Yea, close comprest in human breast, 
What moss, and tree, and livelier thing, 

What Earth, Sun, Star of force possest, 
Lay budding, burgeoning forth for Spring. 

Such sweet preluding sense of old 

Led on in Eden's sinless place 
The hour when bodies human first 

Combined the primal prime embrace, 
Such genial heat the blissful seat 

In man and woman owned unblamed, 
When, naked both, its garden paths 

They walked unconscious, unashamed : 

Ere, clouded yet in mistiest dawn, 

Above the horizon dusk and dun, 
One mountain crest with light had tipped 

That Orb that is the Spirit's Sun ; 
Ere dreamed young flowers in vernal showers 

Of fruit to rise the flower above, 
Or ever yet to young Desire 

Was told the mystic name of Love. 



5Q 



6 Beds fiera aov.* 



^^ tIt ?|c ^r 

Farewell, my Highland lassie ! when the year returns 

around, 
Be it Greece, or be it Norway, where my vagrant feet 

are found, 
I shall call to mind the place, I shall call to mind the 

day, 
The day that 's gone for ever, and the glen that 's far 

away ; 
I shall mind me, he it Rhine or Rhone, Italian land or 

France, 
Of the laughings, and the whispers, of the pipings and 

the dance ; 
I shall see thy soft brown eyes dilate to wakening woman 

thought, 
And whiter still the white cheek grow to which the blush 

was brought ; 
And oh, with mine commixing I thy breath of life shall 

feel, 
And clasp the shyly passive hands in joyous Highland 

reel ; 

* Ho Theos meta sou — God be with you. 



57 

I shall hear, and see, and feel, and in sequence sadly 

true, 
Shall repeat the bitter-sweet of the lingering last adieu ; 
I shall seem as now to leave thee, with the kiss upon the 

brow, 
And the fervent benediction of — 6 6ebs fiera aov ! 

Ah me, my Highland lassie ! though in winter drear 

and long 
Deep arose the heavy snows, and the stormy winds were 

strong, 
Though the rain, in summer's brightest, it were raining 

every day, 
With worldly comforts few and far, how glad were I to 

stay ! 
I fall to sleep with dreams of life in some black bothie 

spent, 
Coarse poortith's ware thou changing there to gold of 

pure content, 
With barefoot lads and lassies round, and thee the cheery 

wife, 
In the braes of old Lochaber a laborious homely life ; 
But I wake — to leave thee, smiling, with the kiss upon 

the brow, 
And the peaceful benediction of — 6 Beds iiera o-ov ! 

v(6 ift *!• ™ 



58 



E7TL ACLT/JLCp. 

On the mountain, in the woodland, 

In the shaded secret dell, 

I have seen thee, I have met thee ! 

In the soft ambrosial hours of night, 

In darkness silent sweet 

I beheld thee, I was with thee, 
I was thine, and thou wert mine ! 

When I gazed in palace-chambers, 
When I trod the rustic dance, 
Earthly maids were fair to look on, 
Earthly maidens' hearts were kind : 
Fair to look on, fair to love : 
But the life, the life to me, 
'Twas the deaths the death to them, 
In the spying, prying, prating 
Of a curious cruel world. 
At a touch, a breath they fade, 
They languish, droop, and die ; 
Yea, the juices change to sourness, 
And the tints to clammy brown ; 
And the softness unto foulness, 
And the odour unto stench. 



59 

Let alone and leave to bloom ; 
Pass aside, nor make to die, 
— In the woodland, on the mountain, 
Thou art mine, and I am thine. 

So I passed. — Amid the uplands, 
In the forest, on whose skirts 
Pace unstartled, feed unfearing 
Do the roe-deer and the red, 
While I hungered, while I thirsted, 
While the night was deepest dark, 
Who was I, that thou shouldst meet me ? 
Who was I, thou didst not pass ? 
Who was I, that I should say to thee, 
Thou art mine, and I am thine ? 

To the air from whence thou earnest 
Thou returnest, thou art gone ; 
Self-created, dis-created, 
Re-created, ever fresh, 

Ever young ! 

As a lake its mirrored mountains 
At a moment, unregretting, 
Unresisting, unreclaiming, 
Without preface, without question, 
On the silent shifting; levels 



60 

Lets depart, 

Shows, effaces and replaces ! 
For what is, anon is not ; 
What has been, again 's to be ; 
Ever new and ever young 
Thou art mine, and I am thine. 

Art thou she that walks the skies, 
That rides the starry night ? 

I know not 

For my meanness dares not claim the truth, 

Thy loveliness declares. 

But the face thou show'st the world, is not 

The face thou show'st to me. 

And the look that I have looked in 

Is of none but me beheld. 

I know not ; but I know 

I am thine, and thou art mine. 

And I watch : the orb behind 
As it fleeteth, faint and fair 
In the depth of azure night, 
In the violet blank, I trace 
By an outline faint and fair 
Her whom none but I beheld. 
By her orb she moveth slow, 



61 

Graceful-slow, serenely firm, 
Maiden-Goddess ! while her robe 
The adoring planets kiss. 
And I too cower and ask, 
Wert thou mine, and was I thine ? 

Hath a cloud o'ercast the sky ? 

Is it cloud upon the mountain-sides 

Or haze of dewy river-banks 

Below ?— 

Or around me, 

To enfold me, to conceal, 

Doth a mystic magic veil, 

A celestial separation, 

As of curtains hymeneal, 

Undiscerned yet all excluding, 

Interpose ? 

For the pine-tree boles are dimmer, 

And the stars bedimmed above ; 

In perspective brief, uncertain, 

Are the forest-alleys closed, 

And to whispers indistinctest 

The resounding torrents lulled. 

Can it be, and can it be ? 

Upon Earth and here below, 

In the woodland at my side 

Thou art with me, thou art here. 



62 

'Twas the vapour of the perfume 

Of the presence that should be, 

That enwrapt me ! 

That enwraps us, 

my Goddess, my Queen ! 

And I turn 

At thy feet to fall before thee ; 

And thou wilt not : 

At thy feet to kneel and reach and kiss thy 

finger-tips ; 
And thou wilt not : 
And I feel thine arms that stay me, 
And I feel 

mine own, mine own, mine own, 

1 am thine, and thou art mine ! 



Xpvcria kXtjs £7ri yXaffva. 

If, when in cheerless wanderings, dull and cold, 
A sense of human kindliness hath found us, 

We seem to have around us 

An atmosphere all gold, 
'Mid darkest shades a halo rich of shine, 
An element, that while the bleak wind bloweth, 



63 



On the rich heart bestoweth 

Imbreathed draughts of wine ; 
Heaven guide, the cup be not, as chance may be, 
To some vain mate given up as soon as tasted ! 

No, nor on thee be wasted, 

Thou trifler, Poesy ! 
Heaven grant the manlier heart, that timely, ere 
Youth fly, with life's real tempest would be coping ; 

The fruit of dreamy hoping 

Is, waking, blank despair. 



Is it true, ye gods, who treat us 
As the gambling fool is treated, 
ye, who ever cheat us, 
And let us feel we 're cheated ! 
Is it true that poetical power, 
The gift of heaven, the dower 
Of Apollo and the Nine, 

The inborn sense, "the vision and the faculty divine,'' 
All we glorify and bless 
In our rapturous exaltation, 
All invention, and creation, 
Exuberance of fancy, and sublime imagination, 



64 

All a poet's fame is built on, 
The fame of Shakespeare, Milton, 
Of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, 
Is in reason's grave precision, 
Nothing more, nothing less, 
Than a peculiar conformation, 
Constitution, and condition 
Of the brain and of the belly ? 
Is it true, ye gods who cheat us ? 
And that 's the way ye treat us ? 

Oh say it, all who think it, 

Look straight, and never blink it ! 

If it is so, let it be so, 

And we will all agree so ; 

But the plot has counterplot, 

It may be, and yet be not. 



POEMS 



THOMAS BURBIDGE. 



TO THE PINES OP THE CASCINE AT 
FLORENCE. 

January, 1840. 



Sweet is your shade in summer heat, 
Your screening boughs in winter sweet ! 
Bright are ye, noble trees ! beside 
Your thickets Arno loves to glide, 
A river silent in his pride, 
— A lively creature from his source 
He springs, and noisy as a horse 
Flings up the pebbles as he strides 
Adown the clamouring mountain sides ; 
But silent as a brooding dove 
He glides beside this cheerful grove ; 
Nor calmed by years, but by the weight 
Of memories terrible and great 
Made silent and deliberate. 

And thou too, Florence ! — not too much 
Hast thou received from grateful Fame. 



68 

Thy slave, if e'er the Power were such 
To aught of mortal birth that came. 
Faint as a city of the air 
In seeming, delicately fair 
In colour as the flowers of Spring, 
Thou risest, an enchanted thing, 
A pomp — a play-work of the cloud 
To which the hills this lovely plain 
Spread out, scarce hoping to retain ! 
Silent, yet longing to rejoice aloud ! 
i 

Fair all the scene in which I stand ; 
I sing — so Fancy doth command ; 
— But I am in a foreign land. 



TO THE SAME. 

June, 1848. 



Once before this, ye sovran pines, 
When with a mighty wave ye swung, 
A thousand to one impulse flung 
Adown one wind, in trembling lines 
Your might I honoured, feebly sung 



69 



Again, but not as then, I lift 

My voice in honour of your might ; 

More bold than then — thro' wrong or right- 

I walk the world, and through the drift 

Of darkness seem to see the light. 

Yes, sweet is home, and sweet is love, 
And pity is the right of boys, 
How weak soe'er ! but he employs 
My praise, him now I best approve 
Who makes the happiness he enjoys. 

sovran trees ! in summer heat, 
In winter storms ye brightly shine ; 
With no self-discord ye repine, 
But tread your trial beneath your feet ; 
As you tread yours, will I tread mine! 



70 






THE LUCERNE LION. 

IT COMMEMORATES THE FIDELITY OF LOUIS XVI.'s SWISS GUARD. 

Come to this damp recess whose air with noon 
Was never warm and dry, 
Whose pining trees shine never to the moon, 
Wherever in the sleepless nights of June, 
She wander in the unincumbered sky. 

Here lo ! the wounded Lion : — breathing hard 
The unconquerable Beast 
Dies on the Shield he was employed to guard ; 
Prom the imprisonment of his true ward 
Even by the mortal torture unreleased. 

In such an emblem doth the rock unfold 
A story not to fade ! 
How to a stranger for a stranger's gold 
The chance of life and life's delight was sold, 
And when 'twas forfeit, faithfully was paid. 

Sad be the land — be sad and ever mourn, 
That might not see arise, 
Gladdening her silent paths at every turn, 
A votive altar whereupon should burn 
The memory of some nobler sacrifice ! 



71 



PORTRAITURE. 



With pain her gloomy eyes did she uplift, 
That Woman Old ; with many a tempest torn 
Of sins and sorrows spent ere we were born, 
Her sallow brow appeared, o'er which a drift 
Of massive snow-white hair lay dead and still 
Or flew across, by fits, without her will. 

There stood before her the enquiring Child : 

On the frail lids of his uncentred eyes 

Lay no weight heavier than a light surprise ; 

His tresses soft, like silver undefiled, 

Hung on his sunbright face, or in a floating wreath 

Clouding his lips, moved mildly with his breath. 

A Rock long-bearded with cold weeds marine, 
In whose wet womb the ocean-creatures sleep, 
Should it uplift its scalp above the deep, 
Were likest to that hellish Woman seen ; 
But he a Lily stood, caressed by eve, 
And which the morning mists are loth to leave. 



72 



LAPSE. 

A heavenly Night ! — methinks to me 
The soul of other times returns ; 
Sweet as the scents the orange-tree 
Drops in the wind-flower's scarlet urns, 
When sunset, like a city, burns 
Across the glassy midland sea. 

This night gives back that double day, 

Which clothed the earth when I was young ! 

A light most like some godlike lay 

By parted hero-angels sung : — 

It stirred my heart ; and through my tongue 

It passed, methought, — but passed away. 

The entrancement of that time is o'er, 

A calmer, freer soul is here ; 

I dream not as I dreamed of yore, 

Awake to sin, awake to fear ; 

I own the earth, — I see, I hear, 

I feel ; — may I dream no more ! 

Farewell, wild world of bygone days, 
Here let me now more safely tread ! 



73 

I ask no glory's vagrant blaze, 
To dance around my shining head : 
Be peace and hope my crown instead, 
With love, God willing, for my praise ! 



TO AN IDIOT CHILD. 



Sweet Child ! what light is in those eyes ? 

Like islands bright in sunset skies, 

Ablaze with glory overweening 

Yet cold — alive, yet dead of meaning ! 

Two goats upon the rocks at play 

Not wilder as they climb and leap ; 

Yet torpid in their sense are they 

As awful mountain lakes that sleep 

Far deepening downward from the day, 

To caves a thousand fathoms deep ! 

Child of love, what hath become 

Of thy sweet tongue ? — would it were dumb ! 

— That now doth boisterously climb 

Along the fragmentary rhyme, 

Years back within thine infant ear 

Lodged lightly — thus to re-appear, 



74 

Thus, as a vague deceitful Muse 

Its melody may re-infuse 

Into a heart that hath declined 

From the pure guidance of the mind. 

limhs, whose life is it ye live ? 

Which now no more your service give 

To a considerant human soul ! 

Is it the wind which doth control 

This graceful twining of your play ? 

Or do mild spirits, gently gay, 

Thus prompt your motions to obey 

The self-same impulse which persuades 

The woodbine, deep in oaken shades, 

Her sturdy pillar to embrace 

With movements of such matchless grace 

Or bids the skylark, of pure sound 

Extracted from the dewy ground 

While morning yet is all divine, 

About the fleeing. stars entwine, 

In modulations soft as strong, 

The bright inevitable line 

Of its elastic song ? 

Poor Child ! when Fancy's all is said, 
What art thou but a creature dead, — 
Dead to the real life of life, 



75 

The spiritual stir — the strife 

Ineffable of soul and sense ! 

Yet mayst thou live without offence ; 

And thou, poor Child, in memory 

A monument shalt stand to me 

(With many a gem and many a flower, 

And many a cloudlet of the sky), 

Of God's surpassing love and power, 

Who, speaking only to the eye, 

Can carry with an inward smart 

A voiceless meaning; to the heart. 



ASPIRATION. 



Joy for the promise of our loftier homes ! 
Joy for the promise of another birth ! 
For oft oppressive unto pain becomes 
The riddle of the earth. 

A weary weight it lay upo n my youth 
Ere I could tell of what I should complain 
My very childhood was not free, in truth, 
From something of that pain. 



76 

Hours of a dim despondency were there, 
Like clouds that take its colour from the rose, 
Which, knowing not the darkness of the air, 
But its own sadness knows. 

Youth grew in strength — to bear a stronger chain ; 
In knowledge grew — to know itself a slave ; 
And broke its narrower shells again, again, 
To feel a wider grave. 






What woe into the startled spirit sank 
When first it knew the inaudible recall, — 
When first in the illimitable blank 
It touched the crystal wall ! 

Far spreads this mystery of death and sin, 
Year beyond year in gloomy tumult rolls ; 
And day encircling day clasps closer in 
Our solitary souls. 



for the time when in our seraph wings 
We veil our brows before the Eternal Throne— 
The day when drinking knowledge at its springs, 
We know as we are known. 



77 



LILIB. A MYTH. 



Within this bosom she was born, 
I say not if 'twas day or night 
I say not if 'twas eve or morn 
When Lilie saw the light. 

A vision that for seventeen years 
Had floated in men's eyes was she ; 
A bright machine of smiles and tears, 
No more — till she knew me. 

Into my arms that vision crept, 
And nothing knew she there should find ! 
And I breathed on her as she slept, 
And she became a Mind. 



And now she was and she was not, 
When, faltering betwixt part and whole, 
I closer clasped her, and begot 
Upon herself her Soul. 



7S 

I was a coarse and vulgar man, 
I vile and vulgar things had done ; 
And I, as Nature's instincts ran, 
Was wont to let them run. 



And yet to such a man as I 
Did Lilie her pure fancy fling ; 
And loved me— as a butterfly 
May love a flower of Spring. 

She sought my breast, she nestled there, 
For nought knew she that should forbid : 
God help me ! but she was too fair, — 
I knew not what I did. 



I knew not what I did, and now 
Scarce know if I did wrong or right ; 
But in my arms, I wot not how, 
There came a Soul to light. 

But as one bends o'er waters clear, 
And sees the cloud-reflecting space 
Give quickly up the idle sphere 
To yield a human face, 



79 

So while we talked that blissful eve, 
I saw my Lilie's heaven-grey eye ; 
I saw her virgin breast conceive 
The deep Humanity. 

And then, upon her wondering still, 
I poured the warm breath of a man ; 
And so in Lilie's soul the thrill 
Of woman's life began. 

There's many a tale shall say and prove, 
How some are ruined by their charms ; 
But Lilie, as I live and love, 
Was born within my arms. 



80 



PARTING. 



— Forth into the black night 
Ran the black boat. A shudder and a snort, 
A flash, and forth it ran. Went all my hope with it 

A moment, and a sudden foolish joy 
O'erswept me that the black boat should not go — 
A moment while it hung upon its poise 
And seemed it could not start ; the sleepy waters 
Clogged so its fans (how did I love those waters ! ) 
Which with a strong will soon — alas ! — 
Grinding their clog to smoke, made opposition 
Into assistance. Forth it went, my hope with it. 

Forth ran the black boat into the black blank ; 
But still on board there burned a living light : 
My hope burned with it. For a time, too short, 
It kept the dark at bay ; then more and more 
That cheery, warm, recognisable spot 
Narrowed, each breathless moment more and more, 
Till so the vast o'ercrept it, that it now 
Was but a shapeless patch on the black plane — 
Now but a star that night, respecting, hates — 



81 

Now but a spark that blackness yawns to swallow. 
The spark expired ! Expired my hope with it ? 

From the pierhead into the dark I stared, 
I strained my starting eyes : was nought to see. 
As I upon a promont of creation, 
Where it o'erjects the inexistent void, 
Had stood to gaze, so gazed I from the pier ; 
So fearfully the blind wave of nothingness 
Rolled up against my eyeballs, with a pain 
That seemed to quench my soul: my blood, I had 

said, 
Knew no more motion — frozen in its spring. 
Nought in the deep ! Nought in the sky ! No sky ! 
No deep ! I only standing on the pier, 
My back against that world, that only was, 
From which I had just beheld its only good 
Pass out into the nought ! 

For life I yearned, 
For substance, sweet assurance, strong reality. 
They were behind me, and beneath my foot 
Swelled the solidity for which I yearned ; 
Yet nor behind me could I bear to look — 
To see the mountains, lights, and breathing town, 
Nor downward look— to see the well-cut flairs, 



82 



The well-sheathed limb, that would speak of a world 

indeed 
Of warm humanity, manners, arts, and things, 
Yet from whose gross and now fantastic bulk 
All spirit, life, and goodness had passed out 
With that black boat into void nothingness. 

Fond are the moods of lovers, yet not vain ; 
Nor seldom in the bosom of one thought 
Lie other thoughts that are of deeper truth. 
From ledge to ledge, abysm within abysm 
(As, say they, in the marvellous lunar sphere, 
The huge vulcanian chasms, gulf swallowing gulf), 
Descends the inward deep of spiritual truth, 
Wherein the soul has power to plunge and sound 
Through passion. Not at once she plumbs the depth. 
Long stood I on the pier, and night stole on, 
And from behind me (as I saw not yet) 
Lamp after lamp in bedroom casements died, 
And sound dropped after sound : in the silent streets 
The watchman hooded now the useless lights ; 
And when I turned, behind me, as before, 
Was vacancy, and darkness, and blind silence. 
There were no mountains, lights, nor breathing town, 
Even my own limb was dyed in vacancy. 
I say not then a thought of deeper truth 



83 



Came not upon me — from the solid earth, 
That, still unseen, swelled to my warmer sole, 
Grew up, and through my frame spread cordial life, 
That left not my heart empty. Not by sight 
Man lives (my hope grew lusty) but by faith. 



IL GELOSO. 

My misery chokes my life ! 

And thou, the cause of all, 

Dost sit and walk, and, mocking on the strife, 

Kiss hands to every fopling of the ball ! 

Chit, you are carrying honey in your palm ; 
Beware thy steps ! What ! see it fall to ground. 
Waste, and be lost, which were the balm 
Of such a wound as mine — of all this wound ! 

What did I mutter while by thee I stood ? 

I muttered, " Dragging her to shameful shade, 

Shall I let forth the battle of my blood 

On those white plains ? " Art not afraid ' 



84 

'Twere but to leap a thought even now! sand holds this 

sea ; 
By paper is confined this fire : beware ! 
Myself I honour, while I honour thee ; 
In every act of thine is held a double care. 



Fiends whisper, " Warn her not ! Let fate proceed ! 
And vanity were daunted for all time." 
In some sort 'twere a charitable deed : 
Make it a sacrifice, and 'tis sublime ! 

But no, though thou art silly, shallow, vain, 
'Twere pity to despoil a thing so fair. 
Will it be done ? Or shall I still refrain ? 
silly creature, suffer me to spare ! 



NEW-OLD PHILOSOPHY. 

" Un vrai Philosophe est homme, fait gloire de l'etre." 

Marmontel. 

Let Love be Love, my best philosophers ! 
As Motion is the regent Law of life, 
Even so 'tis Passion only which confers 
The power of Love. All contest is not strife. 
It is not peace, but death, where nothing stirs. 









85 



Not all its alps and valleys have destroyed 
Earth's spheric symmetry. From depth to height 
Spin the blind worlds, unerringly employed — 
Stars, comets, systems- — from all time, to write 
One pure eternal circle on the void. 

So is Love's genuine calm, by Passion's strife 
Kept rich and full, else falling soon away, 
Or (keeping semblance) sad in lack of life, 
As that cold impress fair the adulterous clay 
Took on the bounteous heart of Diomed's Wife.* 

Beneath the tents which sacred Love invests, 
Blush not, true man, the rosy wreath to take ; 
Nor, while within thine arms the dear one rests, 
With overstooping kisses to awake 
The little Love asleep between her breasts. 

The true philosopher is he whose eye 
Reads truly nature, God's appointed plan — 
He who obeys her rule instinctively, 
Or wittingly, or not, the genuine man. 
Wisdom is to obey her, knowing why ! 

* In the Museum at Naples is shown the mould ot a woman's 
bosom in indurated ashes — supposed to be that of the wife of Dioi 
the possessor of the Villa called by his name at the gate of Pompeii. 



APOSTROPHE. 



Time may give way, his weary wings 

May drop in middle flight ; 

The sun may faint, and earth, that springs 

As fondly in his light, 

As to a mother bending o'er 

Her nursling, waked from timely sleep, 

May lie, as it hath lain before ; 

And darkness yet once more 

May be upon the surface of the deep. 

What worth the cave, within whose chambers coiling 

Like a gorged dragon lies, his head thrust forth, 

The clammy Dark, when all the miners' toiling 

Is o'er, and all the gold has long been spent in mirth ? 

— As little worth as Thou, 

Earth, that hummest now 

So proudly with thy myriad souls, when they 

Have had their trial here and all are called away. 

Then shall the empty planet roll 
As idly on the immeasurable space 



87 

As doth a blind man's eye upon his leaden face 
Or let it be extinguished like a coal, 
Its blackness and its cold, let them return : 
Shall the stars mourn in heaven, that happy throng, 
Their sinful sister long ? 
I watched the Pleiads one serenest night 
(The flowers were shut — a solitary bird 
Was in that silence heard), 
Pellucid, soft, and bright, 
They seemed methought to share 
The tender pleasure of the earth and air, 
They clung and clustered happily — methinks they did 
not mourn ! 



I WOULD. 



Little it were (and that by me uncraved), 
Though by the powerful magic of my pen 
All time should own thy peerless beauty saved 
For an eternal idol among men. 

Something indeed it were, I justly own, 
My passion to embroider on the hem 
Of thy perfections — so to send it down 
Futurity, appendent upon them. 



88 



For though a little thing, yet were it sweet 
To testify that thou whose sovran sight 
Should sum all human-kind kissing thy feet, 
In me at least didst realise thy right. 

But what I crave, — what day and night my heart 
Cries for, with yearning not to be represt, 
Is that all time should see, glassed in my art, 
Thy image, as I bear it in my breast. 

Beauty is common, and the triumph poor 
That treads upon the sense, not on the will ; 
At best its empire partial and unsure, 
For some men are born blind, and some see ill. 

But to be peerless through a peerless soul, 
Sending through flesh its pure transpicuous ray ; 
To wear, in mere completion of the whole, 
The fairest form that ever bloomed in clay. 

As this is truly greatness, so to live 
Thus beyond death is glory truly read ; 
Mere admiration is but fugitive, 
But Love is faithful, even to the dead. 



89 

Reflective Love, that to the thing approved 
Transforms the approver ; — this for thee I seek, 
That the base world, regarding thee beloved, 
May grow as thou art, lovely, pure and meek. 

And such the love which thou I know must own, 
Seen only — but conceived of — yet to be 
Thy mere apparitor — but to bear thy crown, 
Alas ! is all too excellent for me. 



GOODMAN TOBACCO-FARMER. 

WRITTEN IN SICILY IN 1846. 



Goodman Tobacco-farmer spreads out his store to dry ; 
Row and row the green leaves in a seemly order lie ; 
The open shore invites him, row and row he spreads 

them there, 
Binding neatly into bundles, as they answer to the air. 
To-day's are fat and scentless, to-day's are green with 

dew ; 
Yesterday's are shrunk and brown, but the scent is 

creeping through. 



90 



The rocky open shore, better drying-field were none — 

None freer to the breezes, nor fairer to the sun. 

But the road runs close beside — wall or hedge he must 

not make, 
Idle carmen, idle fisher boys ! 'tis the farmer's purse at 

stake. 

His purse and honour also — for our farmer doth maintain 
To grow the best Tobacco on the rich Palermo plain. 

Protection must be had, so with toil the boughs he cut, 
With toil the stakes he planted, and wattled him a hut. 
Three-sided was the lodge, but open to survey, 
The green leaves and the brown that in seemly order lay, 
— What carpeting of Astracan tohimhad seemed so sweet? 
What rich floor-picture shuffled o'er by lordly Roman feet ? 



9 



Then it was I stood and marked him, housed in his leafy 

cell ; 
Proud security was in his face, for he watched his 

treasure well. 
If the roguish wind would make a clutch at a dry leaf 

in his play, 
Out he darted ! — weighted with a stone, the russet 

rambler lay. 
Even in his noontide napping one ear was yet awake, 
Por the light-foot lizard's scamper, or the rustle of the 

snake. 



91 

Goodman Tobacco-farmer, you watch them with a will ! 
Better watching never yet was seen, and it is fruitless 

still! 
Even honest I am robbing you, in every nerve I feel 
The delicate Aleccia which I innocently steal.* 
Neighbour, gently comprehend me — the sticky leaves 

you keep, 
But the odour, friend, is flying free, o'er hill and plain 

and deep. 

Over landward gardens floating, the truant fragrance flies, 
Still before you lies your treasure, coffered in your 

careful eyes. 
On the road the snuffing carman drives indolently past. 
On the shore the sturdy fisherman stands and delays 

his cast. 
Good neighbour, sack your treasure, take home what yet 

you may, 
But the leaves are all that you can keep, the scent will 

fly away. 

Now, friend Tobacco-farmer, shall I tell thee what I see, 
That makes an image in my mind not much unlike to 
thee ? 



* The Aleccia (I do not know if rightly so spelt) is ;i liner kind of 
tobacco. 



92 

Look yonder o'er the silver Bay, — those stately ships 

that stand 
Anchored on the glowing deep — isles of artificial land ; 
They are the watcher's lodge, good friend ! — this land 

the precious store, 
And the King is he that watches, as you do, evermore. 

This folk may neither speak nor write but as he gives 

them rule, 
They must ask his leave to come or go — like children in 

a school. 
The corn shall not grow up an inch, but it fees him for 

his grace ; 
The fig-trees rain him pennies, the water pays its pace ; 
Doth the wild bird bear his licence under his speckled 

wing ? 
If the wild bird comes to Sicily, it shall surely pay the 

King. 

Yes, he watches well, as you do, a shrewd and careful 

man ; 
What watchfulness can keep, that will he keep, and can. 
From his lodges he has built him, — ships and citadels of 

might, — 
Lidless iron eyes are watching, watching, watching, day 

and night ; 



93 

Watching are all his scouts and spies, doganiers, police, — 
Sixty thousand men are watching, with a new-cleaned 
gun a-piece. 

Therefore all hath he that watching gives : — from his 

Palace set on high 
He gazes ; — all is safe, his own, betwixt the earth and sky. 
His pennies come in punctually ; — soft flatteries plump 

his throne ; 
Says the Ancient (lying meekly), " What is mine, Sire, 

is your own ! " 
Says the lusty-lying Younker, " Sire, I kiss my bride 

to-night, 
That your Majesty may never lack defenders of your 

right I" 

But the Ancient, going home, flings his stars upon the 

ground, 
Groaning, " Will the wheel of Freedom never more turn 

round ? 
Hither, steward ! — drain the vineyard, and never spare 

the land, 
Gold, gold is of no country, get gold you understand ! " 
Through the banker's silent fingers see the golden 

streamlet glance, 
To fat the sluggard English clays, or arid sands of France. 



94 

And that night the Young-man, lying silent by his 

bride, 
Blasphemes the sacred fire of youth, that would not be 

denied : 
Cursing Nature, hating Love, creeps to Beauty's breast 

the brave, 
Whispering wildly, " Yet be fruitless, — son me never 

with a slave.' ' 
Weeps long that swelling mother, — hides her glory as 

she can, 
Nor dare murmur " Noble husband, God hath owned thee 

for a Man ! " 



And Thought and Genius ? What ! think you that 

creatures stay 
In a prison's noisome narrows, who have wings to get 

away ? 
On far Parisian garret-floors the alien tomes are spread, 
When the historian's magic eye would question with the 

dead ; 
Feebly, by foreign breezes swept, the old Sicilian Tree 
Murmurs its near-forgotten trick of honeyed melody.* 



* The free-minded Sicilian writers, whether in prose or verse, were 
obliged to have recourse to the French press, and some at least, like 
Amari, to live in exile. 






95 



Thus, me-seemeth, gracious King, that Sovran Lord 

thou art 
Of every thing about the land except its soul and heart. 
To the outward flies, detesting thee, all energy of good, 
Even vice, in its hot chamber, would forget thee if it 

could. 
King, count well thy pennies — pouch, Soul-farmer, 

what you may, 
But the leaves methinks are all you keep, the odour 

flies away. 



VERSES WRITTEN IN THE BOBOLI GARDENS 
AT FLORENCE. 



Bright pomp of mingled vale and mound ! 
Fair walks and alleys green ! 
— Yet let me go where humbler ground 
Lets Nature's will be seen. 

We imitate — 'tis wisely done, 
Yet ofttimes do we find, 
With all her features fairly won, 
We have not caught her mind. 



96 

For she hath meanings, though unseen ; 
In wisdom and in love, 
She spreads her placid sheets of green, 
Or knits the boughs above. 

In wood and wold, in field and lane, 
She walks, a blameless Muse ; 
Still busy something to restrain, 
And something to infuse. 

Florence, 

Jan. 26, 1845. 



AN ANNIVERSARY. 



Two years ago, this day, he died ; 
In silence to the grave he stole ; 
To many friends their joy and pride, — 
To me the brother of my soul. 

Then died their hopes and were not seen, 
But still our love, it seems to me, 
Survives, though something hangs between, - 
A haze — a dim perplexity ! 



97 



Perplexity that gathers still 

Veil over veil, fold upon fold ! 

Like mists of rain about a lonely hill 

Round me that cloud contracts or is unrolled. 

Come often Intimations, as it were, 

He still were somewhere dwelling on the earth ; 

Some look that of his beauty hath a share, 

Some laugh that hath a sound of his delicious mirth ! 



ii. 

If I no more behold thy face 
I know thou art not lost ; — I know 
Christ keeps thee in a safer place, 
And I at heart would have it so. 

I murmur not. soul above, 
"Tis not my voice thou hearest groan ; 
'Tis sin that counterfeits my love, 
I but for weakness moan. 

But no, thou hast a finer ear, 
And thou, I trust — 'tis more than I dare say,- 
Discern'st the joyful spirit singing clear 
Even in this miserable house of clay ! 



98 

in. 
Year after misty year comes forth, 
And old things flee and new arrive ; 
And still he lingers on the earth, — 
My friend is still alive. 

Or if sometimes he he not here, 
Like flowerets of the Spring, 
Soon doth his beauty reappear, 
A renovated thing. 

Kin to all love and nobleness, 
All glory is his heir ; 
No deed to praise, no sight to bless 
Comes out, but he is there. 

Is he alive in truth, or dead and dull 

And lost, for ever lost to mortal eye ? 

friend, so noble and so beautiful 

While earth is fair, to me thou canst not die ! 



99 



ON A CHILD ASLEEP. 



Lord bless him in his holiness ! 

— The quiet night is over all, 

Upon the darkened air I guess 

His happy lips they rise and fall ; 

Stirred by the breath that loves in play 

Those rosy gates to swing apart, 

Or waving with the motions gay 

Of dreams that flutter round his heart. 

What makes his dreams ? cavern sweet, 
Thou silent heart of him I love, 
Unfold for once that still retreat, 
And through the shade let Fancy rove ! 
— A footless creature, borne by wings, 
She enters : silent she came forth, 
Silent and grave ; but hark, she sings 
Now she is farther from the earth ! 
h2 



100 



SI MODO. 



— No, not on earth can such love be ! 
Though fondest friends that bear the name, 
Yet must our deeds by Praise and Blame 
Be ruled ; to sovran Right and Wrong 
Our feelings and our thoughts belong. 
Were I my own, while life endures, 
So long were I not mine, but yours ; 
Ours were the Dawns that sprinkle bright 
Yon crusted Alps with sparks of light ; 
Ours thoughtful Eve, her single care 
To make some shadowy vale more fair ; 
Ours Noon, that planes the furrowed sea ; 
Night, one grand show for you and me. 

How is it now ? Fast whirling by, 

A pomp, a cloudy company, 

Sweep the dim Hours : if Love lay hand 

Upon a straggler of the band, 

It is enough, — the spirit's pride 

Of mastery is satisfied : 

The rest, as haughty as they go, 

Their necks to humbler service owe ; 



101 

Some need, of sensual nature born, 
Subjects the blithest hour of morn ; 
Eve slaves in beauty to some task 
Of Reason, half-ashamed to ask ; 
Some refuse moments of dull light, 
Love's pittance out of all his right 
On universal Day and Night. 

And yet we love ! — 

Plongeon, Geneva. 



TO 



A Hero's bride, by Nature made ! 
— Yet rather who hath stood, 
And with a hero's soul obeyed 
A vision pure of blood. 

Ah me ! what bliss — if it could be — 
Acknowledged by thy love, 
To breast the world below with thee, 
To scale the world above ! 



102 

Ah me ! from lower cares of earth 
By such a mate redeemed, 
What I have hoped, to body forth, 
To do what I have dreamed ! 



for a soul by thee imbued 
With energies severe, 
To hold the faith in fortitude, 
Until the darkness clear. 



What were a life, thou looking on ! 
The dagger of thy tear 
The goad, — a smile of thine the crown 
Of the immense career ! 



rather for the gloomy days 

Of ordinary life, 

Enlightened by thy love, thy praise, 

A sympathising wife : 

By the pure privilege of love 

The inner strife to see, 

When angels bring from realms above 

Some tear-crowned victory ; 



103 

Or, — milder bliss — in some green nook 
While summer suns decline, 
To read some pure and peaceful book, 
Her eyelight mixed with mine ! 



THE FATHER AND THE CHILD. 



All on the open shore, — the Yale, the peerless Bay, 
Ten miles of beauty, broad and soft, in his eye reflected 

lay; 
But the Father there saw nothing, but only the tender 

guest 
That, yet nor boy nor girl, played bo-peep within his 

vest. 

A noble frame and strong, limbs of health's firmest 

mould, 
The Father, propped against the bank, gave the proud 

earth to hold ; 
The arm that lay beneath his head, the hand that looped 

the Ass, 
Had widened him a road, methinks, where he had willed 

to pass. 



104 

But the Child, ah, fragile creature ! the riband's scarlet 

gleam 
Fell into its pale cheek as a shadow in a stream. 
Seraph, half-unfleshed already ! with the glimmer of the 

day 
Will it not fall to shade, to air, thin out, and pass away ? 

And this the seed of such a Sire ? Could Love no more 

than this, 
When all the soul stretched all the flesh to span the 

fruitful bliss ? 
What poison held thy manly strength ? What spell 

besate the hour ? 
Behold, the oak a lily breeds, the tree begets a flower ! 

Ah, mutual bondage of true love ! Ah, spiritual sway 
That guides the blinder sense on its Heaven-appointed 

way ! 
What do not thy pale cheeks, child, thy puny limbs 

impart 
Of the feeble girl who overcame thy father's lusty heart ? 

Beautiful to see and think how the power of heart and 

mind 
Can lead the lion passions and the savage pulse of kind ! 



105 

How the weak subdues the strong, yea, the foolish bends 

the wise 
By the might of a pure nature, or a pair of pretty eyes ? 

All his Beata left him, may the breeze make fresh and 

Thine airy cheek ! I tell thee, thou must not pass away ! 
Single trophy of his single love, he clasps thee to his 

soul ; 
"lis through Thee, Child, Heaven and Earth to him are 

made into a whole. 

Romagnuolo, 1845. 



TO A FRIEND. 

Friend, give to me that calmer heart, 
For I have learned by you 
How 'tis the higher, lovelier part, 
To suffer than to do. 

Teach me, like thee, serene and still, 
To let my life go play, 
My humble task to mark its will. 
And to approve the way. 



106 

For me, I make, I mend, I mar, 
I order, and must rule ; 
Those blessings scarcely blessings are, 
I have not put to school. 

But life at every moment crost 
Is overmuch employed ; 
Nor while I mourn o'er what is lost, 
Is what is saved enjoyed. 

Each morn for thee in joy that breaks 
Thy wisdom, friend, approves ; 
And health hath marked thee on the cheeks 
For one whom Nature loves. 



SO HELP ME, LOVE. 



For the credit of great Love I must be brave ! 
For else will they take senseless leave to scoff 
Who venture nought for Love, and nothing have, 
And boldly boast they are the better off. 

But if I show, that having caught a wound 
I am content therewith, and rather choose 
Wounded to own Love's service than be sound, 
Free of his arm, or even emeritus ; 



107 

Then men will grant that something there must be 
In that immortal bondage more than shows, 
And some pure convert, thinking upon me, 
May turn to Love, believing ere he knows. 

So help me, Love, for thine own credit's care, 
And for the due recruiting of thy reign, 
Help me, I say not, tranquilly to bear, 
That were too much, — but patiently to feign ! 



THE DAISY IN THE SOUTH. 



This, this a daisy ! gayest flower 
I left at home, yet meekest ! 
This flaunting flatterer of the hour, 
Seen e'er thou seest or seekest ; 
A daisy this ! — then call pretence 
Reserve, call meekness impudence ! 

Thou foolish clime, that could 'st betray 
By pampering this beauty 
The loveliest image which the day 
Beheld of cheerful Duty ; 



108 

'Tis more than Fancy weeps the cost 
Of such a type to Nature lost. 

There are conversions of the eye ; 

Tumultuary accesses, 

Obtained ere passion can deny 

Into the soul's recesses, 

May make a flower of this pure sense, 

A teacher above recompense. 

And what for childhood's opening heart, 

Perceptions ever growing, 

What might not such a fount impart, 

Perpetually flowing, 

Besprinkling field and rock and lane 

With wisdom of this English strain ? 

gay Italian land, to me 

In all thy wondrous glory 

Is something still I fain would see, 

More staid, less transitory, 

A charm my heart has often found 

Couched in the Daisy's simple round. 



109 



TO AGANIPPE. 

Yet once again, thou little silent Spring, 

Which, welling from beneath the green hillside, 

Makest one dimple on the placid face 

Of contemplative Avon, one alone 

For ever floating off, ever caught back, 

Or, as it dies, reborn, — yet once again 

I stand beside thee with a heart at home, 

And can behold thee with the quiet love 

We give to things domestic, which we see 

At morn with tranquil pleasure, and at night 

Can close our eyes on calmly, doubting not 

To see the same again with morn renewed. 

Yet once again beside thee, little Spring, 

The murmuring Muse draws near, and with a voice 

That might, here heard among these shady trees, 

Be taken for thy voice, silent Spring, 

Bids me rejoice aloud ! 

More foreign lands, 
quiet Spring, than in a summer's length 
Thou bringcst bubbles from thy secret cell 
To disappear in daylight, have my eyes 



110 

Conceived and let as willingly escape, 
Since I stood last beside thee, feeding thus 
Calm verse from a calm heart. Delicious nest 
Of shadow, with sweet inlet for the sun 
Through loopholes of the orange or the vine 
Have I enjoyed, while veins of crystal water 
Broke at my side from mountains lost in air ; 
Sweet chapels of the pinewoods, odorous 
With natural incense, where a million stems 
On every side with all their lights and shades 
Made glimmering walls, that, serving to confine 
The worshipping fancy, sank before the eye 
Each in an endless distance, an abyss 
Of columns, exquisitely soaring up 
From mossy floors, smooth as a tranquil lake, 
Into the figured darkness overhead ; 
Nor (nearer thine own kind, sweet native cell !) 
Among soft hills by rivers broad and soft, 
Have nooks and quiet foldings of the banks 
Green as thyself, been wanting, where to sit 
Watching an evening sun, or leisurely 
Tracking the leisure of the noonday clouds. 

little native cell, clear is thy spring 
And green thy Birch- tree with its myriad threads 
One image seen, for ever soaring up, 



Ill 

Yet evermore descending ; and my eye 

Acknowledges its joy — but something more 

Is thine than in the visual organ rests 

Or ever through the avenue of sight 

Made entrance to the heart. — What is it ? — What ? 

Who answers ? In the thick and bowery copse 

Sinks, sinks my voice — 'tis lost ! — the parted hum 

Of the busy flies and insects, closes again, 

And the multitudinous silence of the green world 

Resumes its reign. There is no answer. Yet, 

little native cell, though none express 

Nor even the tear-dimmed inner eye discern 

The nature of thy charm, yet I assert 

That thou art fairer than the fairest niche 

The earth hath shown me since I saw thee last ; 

And he shall mock thy claim, and only he, 

Who never from a foreign land with joy 

Came home, and never in his home possessed 

A single leafy cell with a bright Spring 

Enlivening it, which he had made his own, 

Lived in — and loved in ! 



112 



EVENING STANZAS. 



Where walks by day the peaceful Eve ? 
In Heaven's own gardens, believe, 
She gathers the delight 
Which, hoarded up from hour to hour 
In her sweet breast, the faithful Power 
Brings down to earth at night. 

Come, gentle Eve ! She will not hear : 
The distant fields are bold and clear, 
Though from the sultry west 
The clouds their progress have begun, 
And with poised orb the crimson sun 
Is waiting for his rest. 

She heard — she comes ! — anear, afar ! 

Already her first twinkling star 

Is caught among the trees ; 

And odours which the day confined 

Are loading with a grateful mind 

Her liberating breeze. 



113 

May, violet, primrose, all and each 
She welcomes with a kindly speech, 
Which, passing on the air, 
Cheers every root ; nor ill content 
Leans the low daisy on the bent, 
For she hath had her share. 

Meek subject, Evening, of thy reign, 
The river vails his glittering train, 
And round the misty field 
Flows silently, his easier breast, 
(With warring lights no more distrest,) 
Half seen and half concealed. 

With what a spirit-light the trees 

Attire themselves at thy first breeze ! 

— A light as it were thrown 

From that deep joy that works like grief ; 

Which now in every delicate leaf 

Is settling into stone. 

Nor lifeless things alone obey 
Thy rule : beneath the alders gray 
The dazzling gnats appear, 
Thy minstrelsy ! — a humble quire, 
Yet joyful as the festive lyre 
If but the heart can hear. 



114 

High delegate of Heaven's own rest ! 
If man's impure and anxious breast 
Thy loveliness despise, 
How thankful is the innocent earth ! 
How gladly pour their welcome forth 
The unpolluted skies ! 

Earth's sweetest scent, Air's fairest light 

Are thine by immemorial right ; 

Thine is the grateful boon 

Of waters locked in calmest shine ; 

These jetty trees are only thine, 

And thine this crescent moon ! 

What wouldst thou more ? Benignant Power, 

Art thou disquiet in thy bower 

So brightly decked, so fair ? 

Alas ! the voices which the best 

Should thank thee for thy peace and rest, 

How seldom they are there ! 

Not for thyself, for us thy brow 
So oft with an uneasy glow 
Is flushed, thy peaceful eyes 
Are vexed with tresses all undecked 
And gloom, reproach of the neglect 
It almost justifies. 






115 

Yet walkest thou not in vain, sweet Eve, 
At least to-night, we may believe, 
From this resplendent face, 
Though oft denial, breeding doubt, 
Leave not thy cheeriest look without 
Its melancholy grace. 



TO THE CUCKOO IN SPRING. 

Solitary of the Spring, 
Why still, this heavenly morn, 
Must thou of future glories sing, 
And blessings to be born ? 

cease, thou tedious Prophet, cease ! 
Here let the heart delay, 
And taste a moment's perfect peace 
Before it pass away ! 

— Still louder and with louder glee 
The Cuckoo preached he bolder, 
Of something better yet to be 
When Time should be yet older. 



116 



STANZAS 

SUGGESTED IN THE BOBOLI GARDENS AT FLORENCE. 

A portion of these gardens is laid out in the English style. 

I walked down many an avenue, 

Through many a tutored shade, 

And with my thoughts, as idlers do, 

In idleness I played : 

Delicious maze of grove and hill, 

And fountains far away ! 

But I was free, and knew my will, 

And made my heart obey. 

By terraces, by statues fair 
My steps awhile were led, 
Or glimpses of the outer air 
Still beckoning on ahead : 
At last, grown weary of success 
And pleasure always found, 
I took a path that promised less, 
And seemed neglected ground. 



117 

A green-grown path, through gloomy screens 

Of damp holm-oak it pressed, 

Yet confident, as though its means 

Were more than it confessed : 

But soon it ran less free and fleet, 

Then, like a thing afraid, 

Stopped suddenly beneath my feet, 

Within a silent glade. 

No statues here, no marble cup 

Still dripping with the stream ! 

No cypresses still spiring up 

Terrific as a dream ! 

No royalty, no pride of heart, 

No tall Palladian dome ; 

— But 'twas a garden of the heart, 

'Twas England, — it was home ! 

Dear Charnwood, thou hast glades like this 

Hid in thy rocky breast ! 

How often, tranced in summer bliss, 

Such scenes have I possessed ! 

How often sighed for them I love 

To see and take their part, 

Then checked the sigh that would disprove 

Their presence — in my heart. 



118 

Banks green and smooth, with stems beset, 

And such a shade o'erhead 

As lapped a richer violet 

Upon a mossier bed ; 

Retired, yet free to eve and morn, 

Such haunts the ranging deer 

Would mark, and lead her trotting fawn 

To couch in sunshine here. 

How wildly leaned those antic trees ! 

Like Bacchanals they flung 

Their arms, — upon their ecstacies 

As upon wings they hung ! 

Yet here no riotous thoughts intrude ; 

Even in these postures free 

Is seen the staid and stately mood 

Of Nature's liberty. 

What pageantry is here to pass ? 

Those sheets of golden green, 

Spread they for none across the grass, 

Or for a Fairy Queen ? 

March on, proud Creatures, in your state, 

While ivy sparkles bright, 

And mossy stems illuminate 

With a sedater light. 



119 

Vain fancies these ! and I surmise 

They came not then between 

My startled heart or my glad eyes 

And that delightful scene. 

Or if they came I could not know, 

A captive and a prey 

Was I to times so long ago, 

And things so far away. 

My Father's garden it was spread 

Before me in my mind ; 

Its ancient apple-trees they shed 

Their flowers upon the wind : 

Its walks, that ran like forest brooks 

Through sunshine and through shade, 

Its plots for play, its dappled nooks 

For musing converse made. 

Each bank, each bush in all the place 

Took a familiar show, 

There was no step of that fair space 

I did not seem to know : 

Sight grew bewildered, reason swerved 

Beneath the magic beam, 

Till all the real only served 

To authenticate the dream. 



120 

The plays a city fancy played 

Took aptly to the scene, 

Here gleamed the Hermitage, embayed 

In its appropriate green ; 

There towered (and peeped into a street) 

The ruined arch alone, 

Yon flowery square of fifty feet, 

A desert all its own. 

And ah, what figures rose to view 
Among those pleasant glades ! 
What aspects, joining old with new 
In ever-mingling shades ! 
So few, and yet so many grown, 
While memory's wizard ray 
Transmutes the yellow locks to brown, 
And brown, alas ! to grey. 

What Sabbath mornings rose once more, 

Dear Mother, while with pride 

A stumbling servitor I bore 

The basket at thy side ! 

And all the flowers that fell to ground 

A perquisite of mine, 

— Own Mother, where were ever found 

Such careless hands as thine ! 



121 

Then on the garden seat in haste 

The fragrant spoil we ranged, 

And oft their place beneath thy taste 

The patient buds exchanged : 

Nor few the nosegays to be wrought 

In honour of the day, 

For in that household none was thought 

Too humble to be gay. 

And what sweet eves come slanting bright 

Across the emerald floor ! 

What voices rise, like founts of light ! 

— Now dark for evermore ! 

What laughter on the still air rings ! 

Alas that laughters die 

(Such foresight clogs even lightest things) 

In action of a sigh. 

The thunders of the battledore 

Assault the day's decline ! 

The lamp within shines more and more, 

The chimes are jangling nine ! 

Confusion on thee, drudging clock ! 

We only own to-day 

Time vaulting with the shuttlecock 

That leads our joyful play. 



122 

Yet one more round ! who struck so high ? 

That soaring flight assures 

A vigorous arm, a faultless eye, 

— Dear Father, whose but yours ? 

And whose but yours the wit that flies 

In richest sparkles round, 

Wit that is wisdom in disguise, 

Sense that disports in sound. 

But stay ! the visions throng too fast ! 

calm and sylvan scene, 

Renounce that dangerous spell, the past, 

Let what has been have been ! 

Such awful insight unto me 

Thine aspect doth reveal, 

As almost 'tis too much to see, 

Ah, how much more to feel ! 



TO A CUCKOO IN AUTUMN. 



sadly sung — or sadly heard ! 
How came into thy throat, 
Cuckoo blithe, thou vernal bird, 
That melancholy note ? 



123 

The fields are fading with the year, 
An autumn sadness fills 
The pallid pastures far and near, 
And weighs upon the hills. 

With faded leaves upon the breeze, 
That wanton hiccup goes, 
And where amid dismantling trees 
The swollen river flows. 

Cuckoo, timeless in thy glee ! 
Thou hast undone thy power 
For me, by singing joyfully 
In this ungenial hour. 

Fond creature, if thou couldst but know 
The charm thou dost destroy ! 
May nothing in the world below 
Belong alone to joy ? 

Sad Voice, so blithe when Heaven and Earth 

Are meeting in the Spring, 

Did we not know before that mirth 

Mav be a mournful thing ? 



124 



THE RIDDLE. 



Was ever breast of mortal birth 
With such sweet riddle laden ? 
Was she a Spirit of the earth 
Or a Celestial Maiden ? 

I know not now, I knew not then, 
But oft with her conversing, 
Now was I one that talked with men, 
Now one with Heaven commercing. 

I know not : this alone is sure, 
That, ever seeing clearer, 
I found the earthly grew more pure, 
And the divine came nearer. 



125 



SHE BEWITCHED ME. 

She bewitched me 

With such a sweet and genial charm, 
I knew not when I wounded was, 
And when I found it hugged the harm. 

Down hill ; ah yes — down hill, down hill I glide, 

But such a hill ! 

One tapestried fall of meadow pride, 

Of lady smock and daffodil. 

How soon, how soon adown a rocky stair, 
And slips no longer smooth as they are sweet, 
Shall I, with backward-streaming hair, 
Outfly my bleeding feet ? 



126 



THE QUESTION. 



Minnie, which are thy true charms ? 
Now heavenly, now human, 
Say, shall I fold thee in my arms . 
An Angel or a Woman ? 

A Spirit first before my sight, 
Before my fancy dancing, 
Thou shonest, like a water-light 
Retreating and advancing. 

More close I looked : and to a Child 
The splendour seemed to steady ; 
A thing that breathed, a thing that smiled, 
Bespoke my heart already. 

Ah, would it speak ? — And if it spake 
Some speech past our conventions, — 
The tongue in which the lightnings break 
Of Angel apprehensions ? 



127 

I listened, and I heard its tongue, 
The tongue of mortal fancy, 
Of Earth's affections ever young, 
And human innocency. 

I heard ; my heart began to melt, 
And farther inquest urging 
My eyes — that dared not see it — felt 
The bosom of the Virgin. 

Ah, was it then a human breast ? 
Within it did the treasures 
Of womanhood lie unconfest, 
The sorrows and the pleasures ? 

And all the Woman kind and warm 
My heart was busy tracing, 
When gleams of glory crossed the form, 
With lovelier face defacing. 

I saw — what was it that I saw ? — 
Some Excellence supernal 
That, scorning the material law, 
Shone by the sempiternal ? 



128 

I know not, but since then I see 
In mutual inclusion 
Two diverse Natures both in thee, 
A variance, a confusion ! 

Now earthly all — of that sweet earth 
That owns of Heaven reversion, 
Thou sittest by a human hearth ; 
Then comes the re-assertion, 

And some refulgence of the sky 
And viewless realms above it 
Envelops thee — and I stand by 
And fear it while I love it. 



Minnie, which are thy true charms, 
The heavenly or the human ? 
shall I fold thee in my arms, 
An Angel or a Woman ? 



129 

Nay, friend, the truth is high above ! 
Affection is no standing pool ; 
The living fountain of true love 
Metes not its jet by line and rule. 

Like all that is of truth and life, 
Love plays, is free and hath a will, 
Nor ever, trust me, without strife 
Was tamed to turn a mill. 



0, sir, beware of small conceit ! 

stretch thy soul to feel and see 

How grand, how strong, how deep, how sweet 

Is Nature s harmony ! 

Nought there is found of rule and line, 
Yet all the rugged and the wild, 
By the deep power of life divine 
Is fused and reconciled. 

Each tree, each flow 'ret pouring forth 
The energy to each allowed, 
Lo ! the gaunt skeleton of the earth 
Plump as a rolling cloud ! 



130 



I. 

THE BURNING OF THE TOWER. 

Another of our Landmarks swept away ! 
Another Bulwark of the Faith which clings 
To nobler objects than the Present brings, 
The money-purchased Glories of To-day, 
Self-preached, self-praised ! Great Moralists are They 
Beneath whose teaching in a Nation springs 
The love — or even the consciousness — of things 
For which we must do something more than pay : 
Fight must we — suffer — hardest task, must wait, 
While slowly-mustering Ages consecrate 
The Monuments which form a People's heart : 
England, who can see thee as thou art, 
Irreverent, vain, the fool of pelf and prate, 
Nor tremble as thy Monitors depart ? 



131 



II. 

LONDON. 



City, ever wrapt in thine own mist ! 

Exempt almost from change of night and day, 

Little thou knowest of the dawn-lights gay 

Or the pale tower by sunset's glory kissed. 

Thee the wild Thunder, bully as he list, 

Can scarce make hearken : the defenceless Snow 

Is soiled beneath thy footsteps ere thou know 

How fair a thing thine arrogance oppressed. 

So reign'st Thou — in thy calm obscurity 

Not wanting grandeur, though it be no more 

Than that of a vain world, to whom unknown 

Heaven's mercies gently call, Heaven's warnings roar, 

While in a dim complacence of its own 

Enwrapt, it lets the life of life pass by. 



132 



ill. 

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

(1830). 



Strive not to stay, for we are made for motion ! 
Mistake not, mistake not ! — let it go, 
Bid it Godspeed, the everlasting flow 
Of Man's free Mind, in endless evolution. 
No reconfusing of an old confusion 
Is this ye look on ; man is born to grow. 
Nature but twins herself to the fresh glow 
Of each new Sun : the ever-rolling ocean 
Hangs still, deep-axled on its own serene : 
But not like this is Man ; his Progress free 
From new to new for ever ; — what has been 
May never be again ; — his Race a Tree, 
Which, rooted, growirg in the Earth we see, 
Destines its godlike head for heights unseen. 



133 



IV. 

TO 
THE REVERED MEMORY OF THOMAS ARNOLD, D.D. 



Yes, noble Arnold, thou didst well to die ! 

Needed but this, that the dark earth should hide 

The seed, to have the harvest far and wide. 

Long (with a voice that echoed in the sky) 

Didst thou pour forth thy fervent prophecy : 

Vain Seer ! — for thou amongst us didst abide ; — 

This world was then thy country ; — at our side 

Thou spak'st scarce heard. But now thou art on high 

Among the Immortal and Invisible Quire, 

And straight like thunder (silent till the fire 

Which caused it dies), thy soul's majestic voice 

Is rolling o'er the wonder-smitten land ; 

And Truth, that sate in drought, dares to rejoice, 

Marking that all admire, some understand. 



134 



Y. 

TO SPEAK, TO MAKE, TO DO, TO BE. 



Something it is, if not the greatest thing, 
To sit, the prophet of Oracular Truth, 
Beside the world, not in it ! great, in sooth, 
Is even his function who can only sing. 
How deep is his whose potent song can bring 
More soul into this labouring frame uncouth, 
This world, still struggling with its clumsy youth, 
Help this cramp chrysalid to stretch its wing ! 
Yea, great the Poet's task ! 'tis great to make, 
To make Hope, Love, all Nobleness, all Bliss, 
All lovely things and pure. Almost I see 
How man for it should be content to miss 
His greater task — to do, yea for its sake 
Abdicate even his greatest right — to he ! 



135 



VI. 

THE CHURCH OF ST. MARIA IN VIA LATA, ROME. 

— ♦ — 

This church professes to be founded on the spot once occupied 
by St. Paul's " hired lodging." A pillar and chain are exhibited 
as the instruments of his confinement, as well as a spring of 
water, stated by tradition to have been miraculously called forth 
by the Apostle for the baptism of his converts. 



Oh hadst thou in prophetic trance foreseen 
The times to come, been privileged to behold 
Thine own " hired lodging," tawdry and unclean 
As it now stands with Easter-dusted gold ; 
False miracles, (thick-scummed with real mould) 
Supplanting thy pure Voice, — sad hadst thou been, 
Holy Paul, and tempted to withhold 
Thy teaching from intelligence so mean. 
But thank the darkness of thy moral cloud, 
Rome, thy lies, thy treachery, thy fear, 
Light seems a sin of taste, scarce disallowed 
By us conforming to the atmosphere ; 
Light even a superstition, whose control 
Though poison to the mind, may spare the soul. 



136 



VII. 



The Cactus (Ficus Opuntia) will be recollected by the Italian 
traveller as a frequent accompaniment of fortified places, especially 
along the coasts, where the temperature and soil are both 
favourable to this uncouth plant. 



Not stinted of a rude magnificence, 

His massy fins the Cactus huge expands 

Beneath the Fortress : — doth he spread his hands, 

In supplication crouching, or defence ? 

Huddled in fear, or in a grim pretence ? 

Scarred, thorny, with a tigrine stoop he stands, 

Briarean dwarf ! — and every way commands 

A thousand armless palms against offence. 

Fit warder he — he, in his ugly might, 

For Custom-guards that never ought to be ! — 

But for the beauteous bastions of the Right, 

Of Independence, and Home-Liberty, 

Some other porter seek, or let the light 

Unbroken gild them, planted on the sea ! 



137 



VIII. 

THE NAMING OF THE STARS. 



blow, fresh winds, and change this murky air ! 
Let Heaven, with all its starry clusters hung, 
Mew that old glory, and again be young ! 
Away, away from seats so pure and fair, 
Ye Heathen Hosts, too long usurpers there ! 
The time disowns you, and the sacred fire 
Of Christian fancy doth those fields require, 
Our heart expands, we have no room to spare. 
long-time Hesper, leader of the Sky, 
March thou for Michael, Prince of all the Sphere ! 
Be thou, dire Mars, Ithuriel's righteous Eye ; 
Thou, trembling Venus, Gabriel's holy Tear ; 
And let far-darting Jove report on high 
Of Uriel balancing his diamond spear ! 



138 



ix. 

TO THE STATUE ENTITLED " i/ESPERANCE. " 

(in the louvre.) 






Statue ! thy sculptor's holiest thought in stone ! 
Thee ere the purity of morning broke, 
Day after day he wrought with noiseless stroke, 
Pure as a Flower by silent Nature sown ! 
And (I may guess unblamed) that starry crown 
Upon thy heavenly brow he fixed sublime 
In rapture caught — ere Fancy's self had time 
The happy thought to own or to disown. 
Here rule — yet in thy right, nor let the Earth 
Claim loveliness she never yet hath given ; 
Not Hope art thou, still as the desert Palm 
Entranced at noon ; Hope trembles — for her birth 
Is of the mutable. Thou art a child of Heaven, 
Not Hope, but Faith angelically calm. 



139 



TO 



Like an unused Spectator, who in fear 

Stands midst some enginery, where wheel and chain 

Flame ceaselessly and axles vast complain, 

Terror to the eye and to the shrinking ear, 

So in some thoughtful hours may we stand here, 

While Time takes voice, and shrieking as in pain 

Fly horn* and day, and many a shock and strain 

Torments the awful spindle of the Year. 

Friend, with terror — with consuming dread 

1 listen : but thy blessed voice I drink 
Joyful in holy hope, and calm is spread 
Upon my soul, and beyond Time I dare 
To look, and of myself and thee to think, 
Twin Angels sailing through celestial air ! 



140 



XI. 

He builds on Nature who to genuine Art 
Entrusts his bold foundation : not alone 
Is the soil Earth, but whatsoe'er is grown 
Out of the genial vigour of Earth's heart : 
The loftiest Alp which scruples not to dart 
Into another world its flying cone 
Springs from the humble Earth and is her own ; 
When the pine breaks the sod, a mother's smart, 
Nought more, she feels — 'tis part of her, although 
The currents of a hundred feet above 
Toss its wild leaves that never can be still ; 
Yet doth she feed it with a mother's love, 
And there the heaven-instructed birds bestow 
Their pensile tenements and fear no ill. 



141 



XII. 
TO 



As soldiers from the ramparts of a town 
O'erlooking fields where they have lately striven, 
Tell from what points to what the foe was driven, 
And where at length decisively o'erthrown ; 
So pacing the clear hattlements of Heaven, 
Hope tells how we may one day looking down 
Point out where such and such a grace was given, 
And where at length the heatific crown. 
Friend, what jubilant outcry will go forth 
Among the stars when we this place espy 
Where (God's best gift !) we first received each other 
fellow Soul ! brother more than brother ! 
May some be listening then upon the earth 
To catch the admonition of that cry ! 



142 



XIII. 

Speak it no more — no more with words profane 

What only for the language of the eye 

Is fit — what only can be told thereby ! 

The heart has tones which words cannot contain, 

And feelings which to speak is to restrain. 

Like scent with scent commixed invisibly, 

Or rays of neighbour planets in the sky 

Inter-confused ; or, as in some deep strain 

Of music, heavenly passion is combined 

With thought, and tone with tone in harmony, 

Thus be the meeting of our hearts, dear love ! 

The pure communion of mind with^mind, 

Above poor symbols of this earth, — above 

All that can baulk or cramp, — can change or die. 



143 



XIV. 

Searching the skiey depths all night in vain, 

The starry seer hath known this mystery — 

That the shy orh, which over half the sky 

Had baulked his chase and mocked his utmost pain, 

Oft (haply while the daylight poured amain 

Into the empty concave of the Night) 

Has slipped into his glass, as clear to sight 

As the one Tree that stars a grassy plain. 

So is it known that some secretive Truth 

Which Thought and Patience strove in vain to find, 

Just when Despair and Doubt were swallowing all, 

Hath dropped into the heart without a call, 

Conspicuous as a Fire, and sweet as Youth, 

An everlasting stronghold to the mind. 



144 



XV. 

MONTE CUCCIO. 



Last eve a heavenly glory round thy head 
Hung, peerless Mount, and radiating light 
Of pure clear tint proclaimed thee, as of right, 
King of the famous vale beneath thee spread. 
None deemed the lustre from thyself was shed, 
All guessed the moon ensconced behind thy cone, 
Yet love-deceived the light we let thee own, 
And in that crown our cherished fancy read. 
Now scarce acknowledged by tempestuous airs, 
Darkly thy naked summit spears the dome, 
Yet still unchallenged. Sovereign dost thou sway 
All eyes, all hearts ! True dignity is theirs 
Whose foreheads fit the glory if it come, 
Nor seem to need it, should it pass away. 

Carini (Sicily), Aug. 10, 1845. 



145 



DEVOTIONAL POEMS. 



i. 

HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 



Praise be Thine, Most Holy Spirit ! 
Honour to Thy Holy Name ! 
May we love it, may we fear it, 
Set in everlasting fame ! 
Honour, honour, praise and glory, 
Comforter, Inspirer, Friend, 
Till these troubles transitory 
End in glory without end ! 



By Thy Hand in secret working, 
Like a midnight of soft rain, 
Seeds that lay in silence lurking, 
Spring up green and grow amain : 

L 



146 

Roots which in their dusty bosoms 
Hid an age of golden days, 
Stirring, with a cloud of blossoms 
Clothe their bareness for Thy praise. 



We should sleep but Thou awakest ; 
Sometimes like a morning sun, 
On the dazzled soul Thou breakest, 
Heaven at once on earth begun ! 
Sometimes like a star appearing, 
Seen and lost as earth-winds blow, 
Wishing, hoping, thinking, fearing, 
Thou hast saved us ere we know. 



Thou dost set the mute world speaking 
To the sinner in his sin ; 
Thou to spirits humbly seeking, 
Answerest by a voice within ; 
Happier souls, like fruit-trees leading 
Ordered branches o'er the wall, 
Find in Thee the solace needing, 
Shower or sunshine, Thou art all ! 



147 

V. 

When the proud one builds a wonder 
Overshadowing the earth, 
Oft his turrets, split asunder, 
Cast the homeless wanderer forth : 
Underneath his towers derided, 
Conscience lurked, as strong as hell, 
But Thine Eye the times divided, 
And the spark in season fell ! 

VI. 

As an island in a river, 

Vexed with ceaseless rave and roar, 

Keeps an inner silence ever 

On its consecrated shore, 

Flowered with flowers and green with grasses ; 

So the poor through Thee abide, 

Every outer care that passes 

Deepening more the peace inside. 



Led by Thee, the loving Pastor, 
Anxious night and weary day, 
In the footsteps of his Master, 
Seeks the sheep that run astray ; 



■148 

Glad to warn and glad to cherish, 
With a faithful tender tongue 
Cheers the weak ones near to perish, 
Gently leads the ewes with young. 



When our heart is faint, Thou warmest, 
Justifiest our delight, 
Thou our ignorance informest, 
And our wisdom shapest right ; 
Thou in peace dost keep, defendest 
In the hour of doubt and strife ; 
Thou beginnest and Thou endest 
All that Christians count of life ! 



Gracious Spirit, Spirit Holy, 
Take our spirits unto Thee ; 
Fain we would be happy, lowly, 
Make us as we fain would be ! 
'Tis not our own will approves us, 
If we praise or if we sue, 
'Tis Thine own kind Spirit moves us, 
For 'tis Thine to will and do. 



149 



II. 



Time, dull Time, go faster, 

1 have not found my rest, 
I am not with my Master, 
Unsanctified, unblest ! 

I roam in sin and error, 
In grief and pain I roam, 
I mourn, I am in terror, 
My heart is not at home. 

patience, restless spirit ! 
Resist not, nor repine ; 
My peace thou shalt inherit, 
The promises are thine ! 
If thou with sin and weakness 
No more wouldst walk below, 
Be patient, and learn meekness, 
And thou shalt be let 20. 



150 



ill. 

Yet let me keep the old observances ! 

— Though, stripped of their sweet meanings, they to me 

Be melancholy now as leafless trees : 

Yet will I keep them, fruitless though they be ; 

And in that arbour of cold Memory 

Take oft my pleasure when the wind is low, 

And winter strong, and the tired world runs slow, 

And with my soul the outer things agree. 

I draw — I know it well — from a cold breast 

These heartless words ; and yet I can perceive 

That I may find in time some safer rest : 

Although my earth no more with Noon be bright, 

May not this dulness be the fading Eve, 

When shall be born the clear dark holy Night ? 



151 



IV. 

The evil birds which I have fed so long 

In the foul mansion of my sinful soul, 

Now with their pinions, horrible and strong, 

They battle with me for their usual dole. 

Hungrily barking, a discordant song, 

They hang upon the outlets of my mind, 

Or on the roof sit patiently and long, 

Heavy as autumn clouds, the loathsome kind. 

Lord, give me air and light ! I pant for breath ! 

And Thy sweet residence, once warm and bright, 

Is close, confined, and small, and full of night ; 

It is clay-cold and damp — it smells of death ! 

Yet Thou art there ! — and where Thou deignest to be, 

My blessed Lord, is good enough for me. 



152 



Oh, what am I, if in this kindliness 

Of universal nature I can feel 

No love, nor, for at least the moment, steal 

My hard heart from the tumult and the press ! 

The sun delights the winter's wounds to heal ; 

The rain is husy to support and bless ; 

And joyous Earth sings, like a spinning-wheel 

Turned by a mother in her happiness ! 

comfort, comfort me, thou wondrous height 

Of softly-changing sky above my head ! 

And thou, warm growing ground beneath my feet ! 

— In vain my supplications I repeat : 

In patience let the punishment be sped. 

Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right ? 



153 



VI. 

A Christian poet am I, or would be ; 

And must I therefore to the grave go down 

Without my singing-honour and my crown ? 

What matter ? — if the angel quire for me 

Are weaving amaranths with melody ? 

Yet could I (so fiends whisper) charm the frown 

From Fame's cold brow, and pluck a chaplet down, 

If I would bow to deft hypocrisy. 

But thanks to Thee, Lord, who dost enslave 

The conquered ill to serve against its kind, 

Me from this trial even my pride might save ; 

I scorn in any lie to be confined. 

And Truth is royal and sets free ; — the grave 

Hath but the gaoler's privilege — to bind. 



154 



VII. 

Lord, I will take no comfort but of Thee. 
I had an earthly plant — a pleasant vine, 
From whose dear grapes I pressed delightful wine, 
That made my heart as merry as could be. 
Thine anger hath cut down that cheerful tree ; 
Or, at the least, (for yet I but divine) 
Thou hast cut off its joyful fruit from me, 
And made its precious shade no longer mine. 
Shall I then murmur ? If my road henceforth 
Lies hot before me, wearisome and bare, 
And no green garland, twined among my hair, 
Will guard, as it was wont, my tortured eyes, 
What then ? The sweeter after this stripped earth 
Will be the shady rest of Paradise. 



155 



VIII. 

leave thyself to God, and if indeed 

'Tis given thee to perform so vast a task, 

Think not at all, think not, but kneel and ask ! 

friend, by thought was never creature freed 

From any sin, from any mortal need : 

Be patient ! not by thought canst thou devise 

What course of life for thee is right and wise ; 

It will be written up, and thou wilt read. 

Oft like a sudden pencil of rich light, 

Piercing the thickest umbrage of the wood, 

Will shoot, amidst our troubles infinite, 

The Spirit's voice ; oft, like the balmy flood 

Of morn, surprise the universal night 

With glory, and make all things sweet and good ! 



/ 2.2.3361 

3i 



LONDON : 
BRADBURT AND EVAXS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 






« 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 389 188 4 • 



*m 




